without any expression except that of its usual mysterious immobility, but all her face took on a sad and thoughtful cast. Then as if she had made up her mind under the pressure of necessity:
"Listen, amigo," she said, "I have suffered domination and it didn't crush me because I have been strong enough to live with it; I have known caprice, you may call it folly if you like, and it left me unharmed because I was great enough not to be captured by anything that wasn't really worthy of me. My dear, it went down like a house of cards before my breath. There is something in me that will not be dazzled by any sort of prestige in this world, worthy or unworthy. I am telling you this because you are younger than myself."
"If you want me to say that there is nothing petty or mean about you, Dona Rita, then I do say it."
She nodded at me with an air of accepting the rendered justice and went on with the utmost simplicity.
"And what is it that is coming to me now with all the airs of virtue? All the lawful conventions are coming to me, all the glamours of respectability! And nobody can say that I have made as much as the slightest little sign to them. Not so much as lifting my little finger. I suppose you know that?"
"I don't know. I do not doubt your sincerity in anything you say. I am ready to believe. You are not one of those who have to work."
"Have to work--what do you mean?"
"It's a phrase I have heard. What I meant was that it isn't necessary for you to make any signs."
She seemed to meditate over this for a while.
"Don't be so sure of that," she said, with a flash of
