The senora paused for another survey before she replied with asperity:
"Is the senorita within! Of a surety the senorita is within. Prithee,
where is she like to be--out chasing butterflies?"
Rogelio looked at her in blank surprise; then, with a feeble effort at a
smile: "I would have a few words with her, Senora,--and alone! Pray,
open the door."
The senora made no move to open the door, but replied tartly: "The
senorita hath no words to spare and no ear for listening. She is
wearied."
The _veedor_ reddened slowly as astonishment turned to anger.
"What--what, woman! Dost think to offer me hindrance in mine own house?
Stand aside, then gather thy belongings. Thou 'rt dismissed, dost hear?
dismissed!" He stepped forward.
For reply the lady thrust out her arm and in close proximity to his
nose, snapped her fingers. The _veedor_ gasped. His nerves were
already unstrung, and his indignation set him a-quiver as if he had been
some huge, fancifully-moulded jelly.
"Why--name of a--thou--my soul and body! What meanest thou, beldame?
inconceivable termagant!"
Alas! Rogelio. That was unfortunate, ill-considered, rash. As if thou
wert not enough distraught!--and now to invite the overflow of this
brimming vessel of wrath! Before he could draw a second breath she was
outside, arms akimbo, her face thrust so close into his that her
features for a moment were a blur to his startled eyes. Then she
unrolled the infinite scroll of her diatribe,--a withering flow of
invectives garnered in years of rude experience; a schedule of strange
metaphors, born of inspiration and chasing in so rapid sequence that his
bewildered ears no sooner received the shock of one than another
followed, twice more shocking; a torrent of hyperboles so weird in their
personal application that his ideas staggered in a vague, wondering
effort to comprehend, then floundered helpless in the stream; and each
member of her discourse emphasized by a jab at his nose with thumb and
finger that forced him back, step by step, across the court. The first
flush of rage vanished from his countenance and left an expression of
surprised impotency, his jaw working in a futile effort to articulate,
until, turning with uplifted hands, he fled.
As his door slammed, the breathless senora became conscious of another
man. A man at the moment was as a flaunt in the face of a maddened
bull, and she turned upon him. It was Pedro. He had watched the
episode from its beginning to its close. Now he was bowing low, cap in
hand.
"Senora Bolio," he said, with great unction, "my admiration! My
admiration, my homage, my reverence! My veneration, my stupefaction, my
awe! My----"
"Oh, drat thy gibberings!" interrupted the senora, with irritation. "Be
done with thy bobbing, and come hither. Thou 'rt the very man I wished
to see."
"Heaven forfend!" murmured Pedro. "Hast yet more wind?"
She eyed him sternly, then her features gradually relaxed. "Not for
thee, my chicken pie. But hearken, Pedro. I have news. This
girl--dost know it?--is a Christian."