“How can you say such a thing,” I returned. “You are a foreigner, I suppose, but your wife is surely an Oriental.”
The Juno of the grease-pot smiled and threw a ladleful of tallow on the fire to make it roar; possibly this was meant for applause.
He waved his hand deprecatingly, the bradawl used for his work in it.
“True, friend, she is,” he replied. “Women, like horned cattle, are much the same all the world over. They have their value wherever you find them—America, Europe, Asia. We know it. I spoke of men.”
“You scarcely do women justice—
La mujer es un angel del cielo,”
I returned, quoting the old Spanish song.
He barked out a short little laugh.
“That does very well to sing to a guitar,” he said.
“Talking of guitars,” spoke the woman, addressing me for the first time; “while we are waiting for the maté, perhaps you will sing us a ballad. The guitar is lying just behind you.”