“And what does that matter to us? Are we, perchance, natives?”
“You are right,” replied he, not wishing to quarrel.
They passed by the officer’s house. Doña Consolacion was in the window, as usual, dressed in her flannel outfit and smoking her cigar. As the house was rather low, they could see each other as they passed, and Doña Victorina could distinguish her very well. The Muse of the Guardia Civil examined her with tranquillity from head to foot, and, afterward, sticking out her lower lip, spit, turning her face to the other side. That put an end to Doña Victorina’s patience, and, leaving her husband without any support, she squared herself in front of the alfereza, trembling with rage, and unable to speak. Doña Consolacion turned her head slowly, looked her over again, and then spit again, but with still greater disdain.
“What is the matter with you, Doña?” said the alfereza.
“Can you tell me, Señora, why you look at me so? Are you envious?” Doña Victorina finally succeeded in saying.
“I envious of you?” said the Medusa with scorn. “O, yes! I envy those curls.”
“Come, wife!” said the doctor. “Do—don’t take no—no—notice of her!”
“Let me give this shameless common person a lesson!” replied the woman, giving her husband a push. He nearly fell to the ground. Turning to Doña Consolacion, she continued:
“Look how you treat me! Don’t think that I am a provincial, or a soldiers’ querida! In my house in Manila alferezas never are allowed to come in. They wait at the door.”
“Oh-oh! Most Excellent Señora! Alferezas don’t enter, but invalids like that out there. Ha, ha, ha!”