On the far side of the square was the flower market. Although it was still early, Indian women were already at work, binding, sprinkling and sorting all kinds of flowers. The heavy scent came across the square and hung round us. “I’m glad we came here,” I said. “I feel this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
Myra was sitting with her feet on a chair. Her eyes were closed against the hot sun. She had changed into a simple, well-cut linen frock which fitted her figure like it was painted on her.
“We part at Vera Cruz,” she said without any finality in her voice.
“Do we want to go there?” I asked. “Let’s stay here. You can tell me a story every night and when I want a change you can dance for me.”
“That sounds awfully nice of you,” she said, stretching lazily. “But, I can see no future in it for myself.”
“Don’t you ever get away from your hard veneer?”
She opened her eyes and reached for the coffee. “No. It’s much more than skin deep and it never cracks.” She refilled her cup and then stared across at the mountains that seemed to press in on the town.
“That’s an awful shame,” I said, fumbling for a cigarette. I found I’d used my last Chesterfield and glanced hopefully at her. “You must miss a lot of fun that way, sister.”
She gave me a cigarette from her case. “Oh no,” she said, “I’ve no time for play. I’ve got ambitions.”
“You certainly have,” I said. “But you don’t want to overdo it. What did you say your name was again?”