“I will go there,” said María rising and pulling violently at the bell.
“My dear, be calm. You must not take it so.”
A maid answered the bell and María said: “My black dress.”
“Your black merino frock!” exclaimed her mother. “A pretty object you will look! No, no, if you go at all—and we will talk of that—you must dress as well and look as handsome and as nice as possible.”
“Oh dear!” cried María regretfully. “I have no gowns; nothing pretty or nice; I have given all my good things away.”
“And you think you can go in that merino rag? Foolish child! how little you know of men. Very well; go to find your husband a perfect guy, and you will see how much he cares. Nay, appearances rule the world.”
“But first let us decide whether you had better go at all,” suggested Pilar.
“Yes, I want to go ... I want to go,” María insisted, clasping her hands, and her eyes glared with fury.
“No tragedies, no scenes—eh?”