“Why, good Heavens! Look here, Werner, we haven’t said a word to them! We called at the house every night, and we walked along the Olas Altas, with the permission of the family, but—”
“Oh, you called at the house every night! That’s the worst thing you could have done, my boys! That’s considered an avowal down here—especially since the town’s full of marriageable daughters with scarcely any men in sight! And it’s taken for granted, of course, that all Americans are millionaires. So you’re engaged all right. Now, what are you going to do about it?”
“I can’t think of any suggestion,” said Eustace, “except that we run like the devil for that boat.”
Werner shook his head.
“That means the girls are ruined for life. When a man breaks the engagement, it’s assumed that he’s learned the girl wasn’t chaste, or that he’s succeeded himself and doesn’t want her any more. No one else would marry them after that. And it’s hell to be an old maid in Mexico.”
We were somewhat appalled. They were really very lovely little girls. But a Gringo couldn’t pay compliments night after night for the next fifty years. And one thought, too, of grandma and her ear trumpet, and a solemn circle of relatives, and a table littered with pictures of forbidding-visaged female ancestors.
“There’s one way out,” said Werner. “Say good-by to them as though you were going on a short business trip. From Manzanillo wire me that you were shot by bandits. That’ll clear the girls. Hurry now, or you’ll miss another boat. And by the way, when you wire me that you’re dead, don’t sign your own names.”
VIII
At 7.49 p.m., having recovered the last vestiges of my Anglo-Saxon energy, I drove with Eustace to the house, and bade the family farewell. The girls appeared a trifle distressed, but not so much as we felt they ought to be. The family knew intuitively that we were fleeing, but with true Mexican politeness they accepted our explanations as though they believed.
At 7.52, we leaped back into the cab and ordered the cochero to drive like fury.