“Señor! Señor! Let me stay!”
“No, no. Get up! Don’t be silly.”
“Then if I kill myself,” she cried as she regained her feet, “it will be your fault.”
“Not mine.”
“Yes, yours,” and the girl, changing her tone, added, “But you don’t want me to go. You won’t throw me out; you’ll let me live here; I’ll serve you, and take care of you; I’ll be your servant, and you needn’t give me a thing for it; and I will thank you and pray for you.”
“But, what will people say?” murmured Don Andrés, who foresaw a complication in his life.
“I swear to you by the Carmen Virgin,” she exclaimed, “that I won’t give them a chance to talk, for nobody shall see me. You’ll let me live here, won’t you?”
“How can I help it! You stick a dagger into one’s heart. We’ll give it a try. But let me warn you about one thing: the first time I notice a failing—even if it is only a man hanging around the house—I’ll throw you out immediately.”
“No one will hang around.”
“Then I shall give you some old clothes this very minute, and you may send those to Señora Consolación’s house. Then go to work in the kitchen immediately.”