"And that Valencia,—who is he?" asked the lady in a low voice.
"He's a mat maker by trade," answered Leandro, raising his voice. "A tramp that wheedles money out of low-lives; before he used to belong to the pote,—the kind that visit houses on Sundays, knock, and when they see nobody's home, stick their jimmy into the lock and zip!… But he hasn't the courage even for this, 'cause his liver is whiter than paper."
"It would be curious to investigate," said Roberto, "just how far poverty has served as centre of gravity for the degradation of these men."
"And how about that white-bearded old fellow at his side?" asked
Fanny.
"He's one of those apostles that cure with water. They say he's a wise old fellow…. He has a cross on his tongue. But I believe he painted it there himself."
"And that other woman there?"
"That's La Paloma, Valencia's mistress."
"Prostitute?" asked the lady.
"For at least forty years," answered Leandro with a laugh.
They all looked closely at Paloma; she had a huge, soft face, with pouches of violet skin, and a timid look as of a humble beast; she represented at least forty years of prostitution and all its concomitant ills; forty years of nights spent in the open, lurking about barracks, sleeping in suburban shanties and the most repulsive lodgings.