This Filipina keeps the house much cleaner than the Mestizas did, and has more regard for privacy, in the shape of curtains of bright cretonne nailed across the side windows. The old lady has a very pet dog, which is exactly like herself—a huge, fat, sleek, brown creature, perfectly good-natured, with a deep, full voice. They have a spaniel too, and other dogs that run in and out, and I can’t make out how many belong to the house, or how many are only friends; but I got to be quite certain of one, which nearly always lies on the window-ledge, and to know it by sight. After a time, however, it gradually dawned on me that this particular spaniel never moved—and then I discovered that he was stuffed! Till I knew that, he was, to me, a quiet, contemplative dog; but since I found he was stuffed, he has become a horrible, uncanny demon.
Yesterday morning a little old native woman appeared wandering round the balcony with a bundle under her arm. When she caught sight of me she darted away, and in a few minutes Sotero came into the sala saying that a mujer (a woman) wanted to sell some piña to the señora.
I said I did not want piña particularly, but that the woman could come and show it to me if she liked; so in she came and squatted on her heels in the doorway while she undid the bundle, first a piece of cotton, and then an old newspaper, then more cotton, and at last a lot of rolls of muslin. They were very pretty pieces of stuff, dyed in pale greens, pinks, blues, and mauves, but she wanted sixteen or eighteen pesos apiece (thirty-two to thirty-eight shillings) for them—dress lengths of fifteen narrow yards. I said: “I will give you nine pesos.”
“Santa Maria!” she threw up her hands. “I could not live. My mistress would beat me!”
I said that was nonsense, because she knew no Filipino lady would dream of giving her more than seven.
“Fourteen at the very lowest, señora, and the American ladies gave me eighteen without any questions.”
“That is very silly of them,” I said. But I knew it to be true, for I had been present at a great buying of piña by American tourists, and the prices they gave were simply idiotic.
“I am not Americana,” I said.
“I know that” (I daresay she did, for on that point a native rarely, if ever, makes a mistake), “so I would not think of asking the señora more than thirteen, which I hope she will not mention to anyone.”
“Why should I pay thirteen for stuff that I know is to be had in the Filipino houses for nine?”