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The señora almost stared at the American. Then she drew in her under lip and seemed to compress it rigorously, thoughtfully, perhaps to assist her in recalling what her line was before she hooked up with the general. Then she said:

“I… I did a little music.”

“Teach?” probed the American.

“Well… no… Really, I'm afraid I didn't do anything.”

Strawbridge nodded as if some puzzle had been solved for him.

“Now, that's where you made your mistake,” he explained paternally. “A woman ought to have a job just the same as a man. She ought to be able to hold over her goods until the market is right. Now take me: suppose I had to sell my rifles right now because I didn't have the overhead to keep them ninety days longer; I'd be in a bad way. It's the same way with you girls. With no overhead, it's no wonder you married Ge—” He caught himself up abruptly, aghast at the implication to which his monologue had led him. He floundered mentally in an effort to turn it off, but all he could do was simply to moisten his lips and stop talking. He wondered chillily if the señora had caught it.

Apparently she had not. A spray of flowers swung near her from the vine. She drew a raceme to her face and began smoothly:

“I know feminism is very modern and up to date, but somehow we Spanish women don't care for it. We are as idle as these flowers.” She turned and looked at the blossoms. “This variety of wistaria grew in my garden in Barcelona; that's why I had it planted here. It reminds me of home.” She looked up at the American, smiled faintly, and added rather disconnectedly:

“It may seem strange to you, Señor Strawbridge, but once I very nearly entered a convent in Barcelona.”