“No, protestante.”
“Oh!...”
Her voice ran down the gamut of the scale.
“You will not then believe my book?” The voice addressed me.
I replied that I should value the book more than any one else to whom she could have given it.
“Ah,” she sighed, “then that is why I wanted to give it to you.”
A little pause.
“Good-by-ie,” she said. A glint beyond the netting.
“Good-by-ie, mía amíga,” and Rosa Mercédes and I stood alone outside.