The men of the party were already saying, “That would be fine for Cousin Sally,” and the women were saying, “Now, John, be careful. We’ve just packed the trunk as it is; we can’t buy everything we see,” when Gin slipped away. She hurried around the corner of a house and walked down one of the many back paths, trying to get away before someone asked her to argue with an Indian about the price of the bowls. She stopped at one of the screen doors and peeped in. Her friend was at home, making a bowl in the middle of the whitewashed clay floor. “Oh, come in, Ginny,” said Rufina, pushing a chair with her feet. “I heard you coming. How are you? I haven’t seen you here for a week. Been sick?” “No, they sent me to the Canyon all of a sudden, and I just got back yesterday. How’s all the family?” A sticky little girl, pursued by flies, climbed up in her lap. “Not so good. My mother is still sick, but she is getting better. Did you bring many people today?” “One full load, that’s all.” “We have been busy. Yesterday there were so many. Two buses and other people coming by themselves, all day.” Outside the door a bulky shadow fell. It was the lady from Chicago, reconnoitering on her own. Gin wondered if she had been walking into any of the houses without knocking; it sometimes had an oddly infuriating effect on the Indians. “Oh, there’s Miss Arnold right at home in the middle of them. Come here, Eddie, here’s the cutest thing. I want you to take a picture of it. Look, here’s an Indian making a pot right in her own house. Isn’t that darling? Would you think that you were in the States?” “Come in,” said Rufina. They stepped over the threshold and she sat back on her heels, smiling blankly. “Oh, look,” said the lady loudly. “A baby too, right in Miss Arnold’s lap. Perfectly adorable. Miss Arnold,” she asked, whispering in a small shout, “aren’t you afraid of catching things? Her hair....” Gin said that it was time to go back to the bus. She held open the door, waved good-bye to Rufina hastily, and went back to the marketplace. Eight of the dudes were back in the car, and Blake was waiting for her with a new purchase to show her, a turquoise ring. “Let’s see it,” she said, and he took it off and handed it over. “Why, it’s quite nice,” she said. “Did you buy it here?” “Yes, that man over there was wearing it and I asked him if he wanted to sell. Is it really good? I liked the colour of the stone.” “The green stones always look nice, I think,” she said. “Nice and old. They’re not the best, of course,” she added in low tones. “You probably paid more than he expected, but it’s good-looking, I think.” It was not ethical to tell any dude that he had paid too much, but he didn’t seem to care. He liked the ring, that was all. Summer people always collected jewelry in a serious way—they liked to have heavy bracelets sitting around on the tables or shelves in a careless, opulent manner. The old timers scorned it.