At some distance from it was Antonia Toro, slouching, hands on hips, in her own door. When she saw Manuelita advancing, she straightened, and let her bony hands fall, clinched, against her petticoat. Small eyes half closed in hate, frowzy head thrust forward, she began to call out, addressing a neighbour, but aiming her words at her successful rival.
“Bah!” she cried, with a laugh. “Look how our parrot’s new feathers stick out!”
Manuelita heard, and walked more slowly. Her brown eyes sparkled delightedly, her round chin went up, her red mouth parted in a smile over even, white teeth.
“Bah!” snorted Antonia again, and put out her tongue. “Let her strut now. But—ha! ha!—Ricardo is a man that likes change. Who knows?”
There was a threat in the hoarse voice. It stung Manuelita. She paused.
“When did a man choose a rotten instead of a ripe banana?” she inquired sweetly, and raised her plump shoulders.
At that, a laugh ran from hut to hut. Antonia’s wrath grew.
“How long does the ripe stay ripe?” she cried. “Ricardo will go. Ha! ha!”
Manuelita was proceeding gracefully. Now she stopped once more, turning her full, girlish throat to look round.
“Yes,” she answered, “when Rio Tuy flows back to the mountains.”