“Have you lost your ears, Ramona? Now I tell you, and tell you again, that that wicked ambition of yours has deprived you of your senses.”
“Look here, Juan, you and I are not going into disputes and obstinacy. You know me well enough already, or if you don't you ought to, to be certain that it doesn't take long for my nose to itch. I want to be no less than the Marchioness of Radishe and the Countess of Cabbidge, who at every turn fill their mouths with their grand titles, and, when they meet one, don't seem to have time to say with their drawling affectation, ‘Adios, Doña Ramona.’ Now, since the emperor has told you, when you saved his life, that you might ask him even for the shirt that he had on his back, go and see him, and ask him to make us Marquises.”
“Go and ask him if he has a head on his shoulders, why don't you say? But there's enough about it. Even in fun I don't like to hear such nonsense.”
“Juan, don't provoke me; take care that I don't send you with a flea in your ear.”
“But, woman alive, however much of your husband's breeches you may wear, could you even imagine that I was going to agree to this new start of yours?”
“I bet you, you will agree.”
“I tell you I am not going again to see the emperor.”
“Go you shall, though you have to go on your head.”
“But, wife, don't be a fool—”
“Come, come; less talk, and run along.”