The young American stared at her upturned animated face, suddenly aroused to womanly interest.
"And what did you say?"
Mercedes stamped her foot savagely on the hard ground, her eyes glowing like coals of fire.
"You ask vat I say? Saints of God! vat could I say? He vas a good man, dat Señor Brown, but I—I vas not a good voman. I no tell him dat—no! no! I vas shamed; I get red, vite; I hardly speak at all; my heart thump so I tink maybe eet choke me up here, but I say no. I say no once, tvice, tree time. I tell him he big fool to tink like dat of me. I tell him go vay an' find voman of his own race—good voman. I tell him eet could nevah be me, no, nevah."
"Then you do not love him?"
The puzzled dancer hesitated, her long lashes lowered, and outlined against her cheeks.
"Lofe? Dat vas not nice vord as eet come to me. I know not ver' vell just vat. Maybe if I not lofe him I marry him—si; I no care den. I make him to suffer, but not care; ees eet not so? Anyhow, I—vat you call dat?—respect dis Señor Brown mooch, ver' mooch. Maybe dat last longer as lofe—quien sabe?"
Scarcely comprehending this peculiar explanation, Beth Norvell's first conception was that the girl had chosen wrong, that she had allied herself upon the side of evil.
"You mean you—you will go back to Biff Farnham?" she asked, her tone full of horror.
Mercedes straightened up quickly, her young, expressive face filled with a new passion, which struggled almost vainly for utterance through her lips.