“Didst think, queridita,” he laughed, kissing her cheeks as he had done under the portales, “that here in America I would be wearing white cotton trousers and leather sandals? No, indeed! This is another day.”
“But I, Señor—”
“Call me not ‘Señor,’ but Pablo and thy sweetheart,” he cried, swinging her to the top of a crumbling wall, where she was obliged to cling to him most deliciously.
“You will be ashamed of me.”
“Nay, little one, we will soon mend thy distress. I know of a store not far from here with a sign—I cannot speak the strange word, but it looks thus.” With a pencil he scrawled on a bit of plaster still clinging to the adobe: RUMMAGE SALE.
“This is a strange country, Teodota. At home it is the poor who sell their clothes—mostly in the pawn-shops, though my uncle had six serapes bought off his back by gringo tourists. Here, it is the aristocrats who sell their garments to the poor, and very cheap, though, of course, one offers the half. Poor rich, to lose their pretty clothes, but I suppose the rents are high where they live, and they must have plenty to eat, being so accustomed. I can buy thee silk and velvet and thou shalt be a grand señora, as I am a grand señor.”
“Dear Pablo, you are as good as the blessed saints who brought me your letters.”
“It was a little boy, Teodota, whose father works in the same camp.”
“He seemed not to be concerned in the matter, and I was sure it was the saints. I must go back now or my stepfather will beat me.”
“Back, little one? Never! Come with me instead. The beast shall never beat thee again.”