Patience made a sudden dash, a leap, and alighted on Lola’s back, encircling the yielding waist with her supple legs. The woman emitted a hoarse shriek, then laughed and pinched the legs. Patience plunged her cold hands into the creases of Lola’s neck, gathering a quantity into the palms. She was unrebuked. There were a few persons that loved Patience, and Lola was of them.
“Pobrecita!” she exclaimed. “You are cold, no?”
“Mucho frizo,” murmured Patience, sliding the back of her hands down the mountainous surface of Lola’s. “And hungry, madre de dios.”
“Hungry? You no have the dinner? When you coming?”
“Hours ago, Lola. How cruel of you not to call me to dinner! How mean and piggish to eat it all yourself!”
“Ay, no call me the names. How I can know you are here si you no tell? Why you no coming here straight before going to the librario?”
“I forgot, Lola mia; and then I became—interested. But do give me something to eat.”
“Si.” And with Patience still on her back Lola waddled to the cupboard and lifted down the remains of a corn cake rolled about olives and cheese and peppers.
“An enchilada!” said Patience. “Good.”
Lola warmed the compound, and spread a napkin on a corner of one of the tables; then, suddenly unloosening Patience’s arms and legs, tumbled her headlong into a chair, laughing sluggishly as she ambled off. Patience ate the steaming enchilada as heartily as had Byron never been. In a moment she begged for a cup of chocolate.