"He write. I see the letters."
"But what does he say?"
"How can I know?"
"And she goes to the balls and meriendas no more. Surely, they will forget her. It is more than a year now. Some one else will be La Favorita."
"She does not care."
"Hush the voices," cried Faquita, scrubbing diligently. "It is well that she stay at home and does not dance away her beauty before he come. She is like a lily."
"But lilies turn brown, old Faquita, when the wind blow on them too long. Dost thou think he will return?"
"Surely," said Faquita, stoutly. "Could any one forget that angel?"
"Ay, these men, these men!" said Francesca, with a sigh.
"Oh, thou old raven!" cried Mariquita. "But truly—truly—she has had no letter for three months."