“This is an evil place,” he said. “As for the water—no one, no three, can live long enough to be sure.”
But it was part of Lolita’s religion. “I am sure,” said she.
The young Mexican’s eyes rested on the face of the girl beside him, more beautiful just then with some wave of secret fear and faith.
“Come away with me, Lolita!” he pleaded, suddenly. “I can work. I can be a man. It is fearful for you to live here alone.”
“Alone, Luis?” His voice had called her from her reverie back to her gay, alert self. “Do you consider Uncle Ramon nobody to live with?”
“Yes. Nobody—for you.”
“Promise me never to tell that to uncle. He is so considerate that he might make me marry somebody for company. And then, you know, my husband would be certain to be stupid about your coming to see me, querido.”
“Why do you always mock me, Lolita?”
“Mock you? What a fancy! Oh, see how the sun’s going! If we do not get our water, your terrible Tinaja will go dry before supper. Come, Luis, I carried the olla. Must I do everything?”
He looked at her disconsolate. “Ah!” he vibrated, revelling in deep imaginary passion.