Señora Bolio answered his rap, and opening the door a little way, replied to his salutation with a brief nod, and stood surveying him from head to foot and back again from foot to head with disfavor as disconcerting as it was manifest. Indisputably, the señora’s aspect was unfriendly. The _veedor_ hesitated. "Is—ah—is the señorita within?" The señora paused for another survey before she replied with asperity: "Is the señorita within! Of a surety the señorita is within. Prithee, where is she like to be—out chasing butterflies?" Rogelio looked at her in blank surprise; then, with a feeble effort at a smile: "I would have a few words with her, Señora,—and alone! Pray, open the door." The señora made no move to open the door, but replied tartly: "The señorita hath no words to spare and no ear for listening. She is wearied." The _veedor_ reddened slowly as astonishment turned to anger. "What—what, woman! Dost think to offer me hindrance in mine own house? Stand aside, then gather thy belongings. Thou ’rt dismissed, dost hear? dismissed!" He stepped forward. For reply the lady thrust out her arm and in close proximity to his nose, snapped her fingers. The _veedor_ gasped. His nerves were already unstrung, and his indignation set him a-quiver as if he had been some huge, fancifully-moulded jelly. "Why—name of a—thou—my soul and body! What meanest thou, beldame? inconceivable termagant!" Alas! Rogelio. That was unfortunate, ill-considered, rash. As if thou wert not enough distraught!—and now to invite the overflow of this brimming vessel of wrath! Before he could draw a second breath she was outside, arms akimbo, her face thrust so close into his that her features for a moment were a blur to his startled eyes. Then she unrolled the infinite scroll of her diatribe,—a withering flow of invectives garnered in years of rude experience; a schedule of strange metaphors, born of inspiration and chasing in so rapid sequence that his bewildered ears no sooner received the shock of one than another followed, twice more shocking; a torrent of hyperboles so weird in their personal application that his ideas staggered in a vague, wondering effort to comprehend, then floundered helpless in the stream; and each member of her discourse emphasized by a jab at his nose with thumb and finger that forced him back, step by step, across the court. The first flush of rage vanished from his countenance and left an expression of surprised impotency, his jaw working in a futile effort to articulate, until, turning with uplifted hands, he fled. As his door slammed, the breathless señora became conscious of another man. A man at the moment was as a flaunt in the face of a maddened bull, and she turned upon him. It was Pedro. He had watched the episode from its beginning to its close. Now he was bowing low, cap in hand.