“No, sir, I am not. One must be a dolt like you to content herself with what we have, when we might have much more only for the asking.” “But, woman alive, have you lost your senses? Can the emperor grant us more than he has granted us, or do we need more to make us happy?” “Yes, he can give us more, and we need it.” “Explain yourself, and the devil take the explanation, for you’re going to drive me mad with your ambition.” “Explain myself! I’ll explain myself, and very clearly, too; for, thank God, there are no hairs on my tongue to prevent me speaking to anybody, even to the emperor himself. To make you happy, all that is wanting is what common folk want—a good table where you may stuff yourself with turkey all the day long; but for us who have higher aims, we want something more than chunks of meat and wine that would make an ox dance a hornpipe. You can swell yourself out and look big when you walk out here, and hear them calling you Don Juan; but as for me, I could eat myself with rage when they call me Doña Ramona.” “Well, and isn’t it better for them to call us that than Juan and Ramona, as they used to call us before? What more do you want, woman?” “I want them to call me lady marchioness.” “Have you lost your ears, Ramona? Now I tell you, and tell you again, that that wicked ambition of yours has deprived you of your senses.” “Look here, Juan, you and I are not going into disputes and obstinacy. You know me well enough already, or if you don’t you ought to, to be certain that it doesn’t take long for my nose to itch. I want to be no less than the Marchioness of Radishe and the Countess of Cabbidge, who at every turn fill their mouths with their grand titles, and, when they meet one, don’t seem to have time to say with their drawling affectation, ‘Adios, Doña Ramona.’ Now, since the emperor has told you, when you saved his life, that you might ask him even for the shirt that he had on his back, go and see him, and ask him to make us Marquises.” “Go and ask him if he has a head on his shoulders, why don’t you say? But there’s enough about it. Even in fun I don’t like to hear such nonsense.” “Juan, don’t provoke me; take care that I don’t send you with a flea in your ear.” “But, woman alive, however much of your husband’s breeches you may wear, could you even imagine that I was going to agree to this new start of yours?” “I bet you, you will agree.” “I tell you I am not going again to see the emperor.” “Go you shall, though you have to go on your head.” “But, wife, don’t be a fool—” “Come, come; less talk, and run along.” “Well, I’m going, then, since you are so anxious about it. The saints protect me, if I don’t deserve to be shot for this chicken‐hearted weakness of character!”