She laughed, “Myra Shumway,” she returned.
I didn’t need the confirmation. I knew I hadn’t made a mistake, but all the same I was glad to know. Besides, we were getting on a more friendly footing and that was important.
“That’s a beautiful name,” I said.
A small party of Mexican labourers passed, carrying guitars. They crossed the little ruined square and sat down with their backs against the wall of an opposite building. Two of them began to play very softly.
“That’s nice,” Myra said. “Do you think they’ll sing?”
“They will if you ask them to,” I returned. “If you give them some money, God knows what they’ll do.”
While I was speaking, a truck came rumbling into the square, blotting out the thin music of the guitars. As it swept past the hotel, two men slid off the tailboard. A small wizened man and a big fat man.
Myra suddenly pushed back her chair, made to rise, then settled herself again.
“Something bite you?” I asked, watching the two men approach. “We’re going to have company. Americans by the look of them.”
“You ought to go into vaudeville,” Myra returned. Her voice was so acid that I glanced at her, surprised.