Mary was also still.
I rolled a cigarette and played for airiness. "Of course," I said, "it's all in a lifetime."
She put her hand on mine. "Don't," she said, "don't."
I shut up. The minutes slid by heavy-footed.
At last she spoke.
"For sheer inhumanity," she said, "I think that is without an equal."
"Oh, no!" I said. "I reckon the story's common enough wherever people let an idea ride 'em bareback. Father was a good man, with bad notions, that's all."
I purposely let my eye fall on the little revolutionists, standing in a melancholy line—nothing to do, nothing to think, all balloon-juice to them.
As I hoped, her eyes followed mine. She straightened, seeing the point. Color came into her face. "Children!" she called sharply in Spanish, "why do you not run and play?"
The line fell into embarrassment. They hooked the dirt with their feet and looked at each other.