to me down the whole length of the room: "The dry season has set in." I glanced at the pink tips of her fingers perfunctorily and then drew back. She let her hands fall negligently as if she had no use for them any more and put on a serious expression.
"So it seems," I said, sitting down opposite her. "For how long, I wonder."
"For years and years. One gets so little encouragement. First you bolt away from my tears, then you send an impertinent message, and then when you come at last you pretend to behave respectfully, though you don't know how to do it. You should sit much nearer the edge of the chair and hold yourself very stiff, and make it quite clear that you don't know what to do with your hands."
All this in a fascinating voice with a ripple of badinage that seemed to play upon the sober surface of her thoughts. Then seeing that I did not answer she altered the note a bit.
"Amigo George," she said, "I take the trouble to send for you and here I am before you, talking to you and you say nothing."
"What am I to say?"
"How can I tell? You might say a thousand things. You might, for instance, tell me that you were sorry for my tears."
"I might also tell you a thousand lies. What do I know about your tears? I am not a susceptible idiot. It all depends upon the cause. There are tears of quiet happiness. Peeling onions also will bring tears."
"Oh, you are not susceptible," she flew out at me. "But you are an idiot all the same."
