"Are you going to take her there?" Manuel asked in astonishment.
"Yes. She's a queer one, a painter."
"And is this painter good-looking?" asked Leandro.
"I can't say. I don't know her."
"Damn my sweet—— … ! I'd give anything to have this woman come along, man."
"Me, too."
They both went to the San Millán café, sat down and waited impatiently. At the hour indicated Roberto appeared in company of his cousin whom he called Fanny. She was a woman between thirty and forty, very slender, with a sallow complexion,—a distinguished, masculine type; there was about her something of the graceless beauty of a racehorse; her nose was curved, her jaw big, her cheeks sunken and her eyes grey and cold. She wore a jacket of dark green taffeta, a black skirt and a small hat.
Leandro and Manuel greeted her with exceeding timidity and awkwardness; they shook hands with Roberto and conversed.
"My cousin," said Roberto, "would like to see something of slum life hereabouts."
"Whenever you wish," answered Leandro. "But I warn you beforehand that there are some pretty tough specimens in this vicinity."