"I'm glad," I said. "Poor old Juan!"
"It was nice of you to wait up," said Bill suddenly. "Thanks!"
I became acutely conscious of the hour and of my appearance.
"I—I was interested," I said lamely.
"Yes, that's it," he answered, a smile lighting up his worn face, "it's not often that you—honor me."
It was on the tip of my tongue to reply, "my interest is solely in old Juan and his daughter." But I didn't. It didn't seem quite fair, and wasn't strictly true.
"Good-night," I said, withdrawing, "I'm glad she's all right."
From his closing door his words floated back to me,
"Buenas noches, cara mia!"
Annunciata recovered, and to Sarah's outspoken disapproval I had her come often to the house. She sewed excellently, and embroidered even better, and I was glad to be able to give her small odds and ends of work to do. She was a lovely thing: rounded, and supple, with a clear, creamy-brown skin. But chancing one day to observe her mother on the road below the house I was smitten with a prophetic horror for Annunciata's future. For the woman, who could not have been more than thirty-five was as bent and gnarled as a Northerner of sixty, wrinkled like a monkey and with something of that creature's patient, if malicious wisdom in her eyes. I began to realize that Juan, too was according to our standards a man still in his early prime. I was confused by such an ordering of Nature. I said something of this to Bill but he only answered, knocking the ashes from his pipe.