ESTEBAN
bed, and lay gazing out from under the blanket at the candle beside which his brother was working. There was a light tap at the door and Manuel opened to admit a lady heavily veiled, out of breath and nervous. She threw back the scarf from her face and said hurriedly:
“Quick, ink and paper. You are Manuel, yes? You must do a letter for me at once.”
For a moment her glance fell on the two bright eyes that glared at her from the edge of the cot. She murmured: “Eu . . . you must excuse me. I know it is late. It was necessary . . . I must come.” Then turning to Manuel, she whispered into his ear: “Write this: I, the Perichole, am not accustomed to wait at a rendez-vous. Have you finished that? You are only a cholo, and there are better matadors than you, even in Lima. I am half Castilian and there are no better actresses in the world. You shall not have the opportunity—Have you got that?—to keep me waiting again, cholo, and I shall laugh the last, for even an
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