In spite of his shabbiness, Moreno still possessed some of the manners of a more cultivated society than the one that now knew him. He smelt of cheap whiskey and his person was none too clean; but the semi-obscurity of the hall was to his advantage.
"Deliver this letter to this address at once. Take a cab, and wait for an answer! Bring Dr. Torres back with you."
Fernando gave him some money, urged him to hurry, and was about to return to his mother's bedside when a woman near by said:
"Don't let him go alone, sir. He'll stop for a drink in the first saloon he sees."
"This is the companion of my sorrows," proclaimed Moreno, "and see how she treats me! She owes me everything; I have given her ten children and my name, raising her to my own social position—"
"He's just talking, sir. We have no ten children—only seven. He thinks you'll give him some money."
The woman was half angry, half smiling; and the others standing around, who seemed to have quite forgotten the sick woman, burst out laughing.
"You'd better let my husband go with him," said one of the women, pointing to her man.
"All right. Will you?" asked Monsalvat.
Moreno, with an offended expression, placed one hand on his chest, and declared oratorically: