He came forward two steps. "You never pay me the least visit either of you. That's not Spanish of you."--meaning 'courteous.'--"Which are you, Manuel or Esteban?" "Manuel." "It doesn't matter. You are both unfriendly. Neither of you ever comes to see me. Here I sit learning stupid lines all day and no one ever comes to see me but a lot of peddlers. It is because I am an actress, no?" This was not very artful, but for Manuel it was unspeakably complicated. He merely stared at her from the shadows of his long hair and left her to improvise. "I am going to engage you to write a letter for me, a very secret letter. But now I can see that you don't like me and that to ask you to write a letter would be as good as reading it aloud in all the wine-shops. What does that look mean, Manuel? Are you my friend?" "Yes, señora." "Go away. Send me Esteban. You do not even say _Yes, señora_ as a friend would say it." Long pause. Presently she raised her head: "Are you still there, Unfriendly?" "Yes, señora ... you can trust me to do anything for you ... you can trust ..." "If I ask you to write one letter for me, or two letters, you promise never to mention to a human being what is in them, or even that you wrote them?" "Yes, señora." "What do you promise by?--by the Virgin Mary?" "Yes, señora." "And by the heart of Saint Rose of Lima?" "Yes, señora." "Name of the Name, Manuel, anyone would think you were as stupid as an ox. Manuel, I am very angry with you. You are not stupid. You don't look stupid. Please don't say just _Yes, señora_ again. Don't be stupid or I'll send for Esteban. Is anything the matter with you?" Here Manuel cast himself upon the Spanish language and exclaimed with unnecessary vigor: "I swear by the Virgin Mary and the heart of St. Rose of Lima that all that has to do with the letter will be secret." "Even from Esteban," prompted the Perichole. "Even from Esteban." "Well, that's better." She motioned him to sit down at a table where writing materials were already laid out. As she dictated she strode about the room, frowning, swinging her hips. With her arms akimbo, she hugged her shawl about her shoulders defiantly. "_Camila Perichole kisses the hands of Your Excellency and says_--No, take another piece of paper and begin again. _The señora Micaela Villegas, artist, kisses the hands of Your Excellency and says that, being the victim of the envious and lying friends that Y. E.'s goodness permits about Him, she can no longer endure Y. E.'s suspicions and jealousy. Y. E.'s servant has always valued Y. E.'s friendship and has never committed, nor even thought, an offense against it, but she can no longer fight against the calumnies that Y. E. believes so readily. Señora Villegas, artist, called the Perichole, therefore returns herewith such of Y. E.'s gifts as have not been placed beyond recall, since without Y. E.'s confidence, Y. E.'s servant can take no pleasure in them_."