"But," I argued, "returning to the butterflies, surely, Mercedes, you have quite as much freedom now as any American girl. And, forgive me, my dear, but you employ it in much the same manner."
Her glance was mischievous and rather child-like.
"That has only been since my return home," she said. "Mother is not pleased, but Father says, 'let her go ahead.' And—as to what you say, I am trying very hard to be American now."
"Not the comrade sort, such as your mechanical roommate?" I suggested.
She regarded me in amazement.
"But most of the men I meet are Cubans," she stated. "Do you think they would understand it—if I could be like that little Mary Adams?"
I considered, shook my head.
"Of course not," she said, answering her own question. "They would laugh and shrug—and be, perhaps, disagreeable. They can accept such a manner in an American girl. They do not like it, or comprehend it, but some of them have learned their lesson. And they must respect it. But—in a Spanish girl—it would be unthinkable. Besides," she added frankly, "I couldn't—"
She was right. Temperamentally unfit, emotionally too highly developed.
"And—as to the flirting," she said shyly, "I—I like to attract people. I like to make them laugh and say nice things. And perhaps my American friends have taught me something of their methods."