“What ugly houses these Indians have!” she began, with a grimace. “One must needs be an Indian to live in them! And how ill-bred the people are! They pass us without uncovering. Knock off their hats, as the curates do, and the lieutenants of the Civil Guard.”
“And if they attack me?” stammered the doctor.
“Are you not a man?”
“Yes, but—but—I am lame.”
Doña Victorina grew cross. There were no sidewalks in these streets, and the dust was soiling the train of her dress. Some young girls who passed dropped their eyes, and did not admire at all as they should her luxurious attire. Sinang’s coachman, who was driving Sinang and her cousin in an elegant tres-por-ciento, had the effrontery to cry out to her “Tabi!” in so audacious a voice that she moved out of the way.
“What a brute of a coachman!” she protested; “I shall tell his master he had better train his servants. Come along, Tiburcio!”
Her husband, fearing a tempest, turned on his heels, and they found themselves face to face with the alférez. Greetings were exchanged, but Doña Victorina’s discontent grew. Not only had the officer said nothing complimentary of her costume, but she believed she detected mockery in his look.
“You ought not to give your hand to a simple alférez,” she said to her husband, when the officer had passed. “You don’t know how to preserve your rank.”
“H—here he is the chief.”
“What does that mean to us? Do we happen to be Indians?”