Myra drew away from him.
“There is much to talk about,” he said, reaching for the jar of wine that stood on the table. He poured the sour red wine into Myra’s glass, then held the glass up to the light of the lamp.
“Your pretty mouth leaves marks,” he said smiling at Myra. “Your kisses could be dangerous,” and he shook with a spasm of laughter.
“Mind you don’t bust your corset,” Myra said, alarmed.
Pablo crushed the glass in his hand. The wine and glass splinters spattered the table. Bogle half started from his chair, but I again touched him under the table. I could have smacked Myra. Either she was being the dumbest of all blondes or else she had more guts than I and the rest of us put together. Whichever way it was, she was making things bad for us all.
The men in the Square made a move forward. Several of them dropped their hands to their gun butts.
Pablo wiped his hand on his handkerchief and looked with interest at the cut on his palm.
“That was careless of me,” he said, looking at Myra.
“Don’t apologize,” Myra returned. “I had a cousin who was also a mental defective. He had to have cast-iron feeding utensils. I dare say I could arrange the same thing for you at a cut rate.”
“When my women are insolent,” Pablo said dreamily, “I peg them out in the hot sun on an ant-hill.”