“I know,” he replied.
“Why?” she said, obstinate.
“Unless one gets one’s nobility from the gods and turns to the middle of the sky for one’s power, one will be murdered at last.”
“I do get my nobility that way,” she said.
But she did not quite believe it. And she made up her mind still more definitely, to go away.
She wrote to Mexico City, and engaged a berth from Vera Cruz to Southampton: she would sail on the last day of November. Cipriano came home on the seventeenth, and she told him what she had done. He looked at her with his head a little on one side, with a queer boyish judiciousness, but she could not tell at all what he felt.
“You are going already?” he said in Spanish.
And then she knew, at last, that he was offended. When he was offended he never spoke English at all, but spoke Spanish just as if he were addressing another Mexican.
“Yes,” she said. “On the 30th.”
“And when do you come back?” he asked.