"Yes, nowadays, we know," interrupted Señor Ignacio's mother. "Of two women there isn't one that's respectable."
"A great ways any one'll go by being respectable," snarled Leandra. "Poverty and hunger…. If a woman weren't to get married, then she might make a change and even acquire money."
"I don't see how," asserted Salomé.
"How? Even if she had to go into the business."
Señor Ignacio, disgusted, turned his head away from his wife, and his elder son, Leandro, eyed his mother grimly, severely.
"Bah, that's all talk," argued Salomé, who wished to thresh the matter out impersonally. "You'd hardly like it just the same if folks were to insult you wherever you went."
"Me? Much I care what folks say to me!" replied the cobbler's wife. "Stuff and nonsense! If they call me a loose woman, and if I'm not, why, you see: a floral wreath. And if I am,—it's all the same in the end."
Señor Ignacio, offended, shifted the conversation to the crime on Pañuelas Street; a jealous organ-grinder had slain his sweetheart for a harsh word and the hearers were excited over the case, each offering his opinion. The meal over, Señor Ignacio, Leandro, Vidal and Manuel went out to the gallery to have a nap while the women remained inside gossiping.
All the neighbours had brought their sleeping-mats out, and in their undershirts, half naked, some seated, others stretched out, they were dozing on the galleries.
"Hey, you," said Vidal to Manuel. "Let's be off."