"It is not for sale."
"I am prepared to pay liberally for what strikes my fancy." He took out a roll of bills.
"The hat is not for sale."
"Madame," said Indiman, with the utmost suavity, "are you in business for your health?"
"I am."
"Oh, in that case—"
"You may come inside; it tires me to be on my feet for so long. To my sorrow I grow stout."
"It is an affliction," murmured Indiman, sympathetically. We followed her within. The shop was crammed from floor to ceiling with bandboxes arranged in three or four rows, and glazed presses, filled with feminine hats and bonnets, lined the walls. Near the window was a small counter, behind which Madame L. Hernandez immediately installed herself, and from this vantage-point she proceeded to inspect us with cool deliberation, fanning herself the while with a huge palm-leaf. "You wish to buy a hat?" she said, tentatively.
"That one," answered Indiman, stubbornly "—that hat on the model's head."
"Bah! Senor, it is fatiguing to fight, like children, with pillows in the dark. You want that Russian letter. Why not say so?"