“Why don’t you send her to a hotel?” he demanded aggressively. “You don’t want a dirty Greaser in here, messing things all up.”
“Oh, Angelo, you mustn’t,” protested Eveley, deeply shocked. “She isn’t a Greaser. She is a high caste Mexican girl.”
“There ain’t no such thing,” he said gloomily. “You’ll see. She’ll litter the whole place up with a lot of smelly bandits, and they’ll cut your throat, and steal your money, and then where’ll you be?”
Then Amos Hiltze turned on him, with something compelling in his eyes. “Cut out that nonsense, and mind your own business. This is not your affair.”
So Angelo resigned himself to the inevitable, and fell to work, not with good will, but with efficiency. And when the room was ready, while the man and boy were carrying the extra furniture out to the garage for storage, Eveley hastily prepared a light supper for the three of them. It was eaten in utter silence. Eveley was excited almost to the point of suffocation, and the others were immersed in their own thoughts. She hastily cleared the dishes from the table, and put on her heavy coat and a small hat.
“Where do you go to get your Spanish queen?” demanded Angelo.
“Oh, a long way out in the country,” said Eveley nervously. “We must hurry, Angelo. It is getting late.”
“Are you going in your car?” he persisted.
“Yes. Now, please, Angelo, I hate to rush you off, but we must go.”
“Take me along, Miss Eveley. Please—you’ve got plenty of room. Won’t you take me?”