“’Twas a coyote barked,” Señora Vallejo replied.
“Indeed, my poor voice may seem like the barking of a coyote to one with a true musical ear,” the caballero said, “though some have said it is near perfect in tone.”
“Are you mumbling, Señora Vallejo?” Anita demanded.
“I am not, Anita, dear. It is the wind whistling through the olive trees.”
“Ah! We grow with acquaintance!” said the caballero, lightly. “At first my voice sounded like the barking of a coyote, and now it sounds like the whistling of the wind through the trees. We grow more musical, indeed.”
Señora Vallejo bit her lip, and resolutely kept her face from that of the man standing beside her.
“Do you suppose, Señora Vallejo,” asked Anita, “that the odious Captain Fly-by-Night will have the audacity to come to San Diego de Alcalá, as he boasted he would do? Has the man no brains at all, no sense of the fitness of things? San Diego de Alcalá is no place for gamblers such as he. He pollutes the plaza if he walks across it!”
“No doubt the creature is senseless enough to come,” said Señora Vallejo. She dabbed at her face with a lace handkerchief, and, in dabbing, dropped it. In an instant the caballero was down upon one knee, had picked up the handkerchief, and, remaining on one knee, tendered it.
“Permit me, señora,” he said.
Señora Vallejo’s hand went out, but there flashed from the eyes of Anita Fernandez a warning, and the hand was withdrawn. The caballero arose and tendered the handkerchief again, to have Señora Vallejo turn her back and face the girl.