“No, no, no!” she cried, running forward and catching at the other’s hand. “I’m not that. You don’t understand.”
Coldly Carmencita disengaged her hand and wiped it with her kerchief. “I understand enough. Please do not touch me.”
“May I not tell you my story?”
“I’ll not trouble you. It does not interest me.”
“But you will listen?” implored the other.
“I must ask to be excused.”
“Then you are a heartless, cruel woman,” flamed Frances. “I’m good—as good as you are.” The color patched her cheek and ebbed again. “I wouldn’t treat a dog as you do me. Oh, cruel, cruel!”
The surprising extravagance of her protest, the despair that rang in the fresh young voice, caught the interest of the Mexican girl. Surely such a heart-broken cry did not consist with guilt. But the facts—when a young and pretty girl masquerades through the country in the garb of a boy with a handsome young man, not much room for doubt is left.
Frances was quick to see that the issue was reopened. “Oh, señorita, it isn’t as you think. Do I look like—” She broke off to cover with her hands a face in which the pink and white warred with alternate success. “I ought not to have come. I ought never to have come. I see that now. But I didn’t think he would know. You see, I had always passed as a boy when I wanted to.”
“A remarkably pretty one, child,” said Miss Carmencita, a smile dimpling her cheeks. “But how do you mean that you had passed as a boy?”