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resigned herself to the inevitable. It occurred to her that the Mexicans always rolled with a punch. Trained to it from infancy! she thought.
    “Goodbye now,” recited Dr. Herrera in English.
    Serena returned after showing the doctor to the door. She brought coffee and one of the pills. A look of gleeful malice filled her face—especially around the eyes. “The doctor says …”
    “I know what the doctor says!”
    Mrs. Ross gulped the pill, shuddered, sipped her coffee. Presently, she said: “Is that Hoblitt still painting out there?”
    “The portrait of Señorita Paulita grows more beautiful by the minute,” said Serena. “Such an artist, that one!”
    Mrs. Ross glanced at the sketch lying face up on her nightstand. He probably charges outrageous prices for his work, she thought. And wouldn’t I look the fool going out there to ask if he’s painted my picture! Simply outrageous prices. I’d look like a vain old woman. Especially if he hadn’t painted my picture. And he most likely hasn’t. When could he have painted it? He hasn’t been standing around mooning at me the way he has with Paulita.
    She sat there, wrestling with the weak remnants of her previous worry.
    Serena said: “Is there anything you wish, Señora?”
    “Just a moment, just a moment.” Mrs. Ross reached out, reversed the sketch, studied Hoblitt’s message.
    Peace offering, hmmmph! she thought. He’s just found out how rich I am. Probably thinks I’ll come right out with this little sketch and spend a thousand dollars hiring him to paint a big one like it. Well, he can just think again.
    “Our street is very busy for a Sunday,” said Serena.
    “Oh?” Mrs. Ross relaxed against her pillows, thought: Jaime will get rid of him. I must put more faith in Jaime.
    Serena said: “Already this morning there have passed …” She ticked them off on her fingers: “… the Señor Iriarte, the Señora Aguilar y Cantido, the Señor Muñoz with his Señora, the Señoritas Castillano, the entire familia García, the …”
    “All gawking at that fool painting,” said Mrs. Ross. And she thought: They’re all curious about the picture of Paulita. That’s all it is. Jaime was curious, too, nothing more.
    “There is curiosity about the portrait,” said Serena.
    That’s all it was, thought Mrs. Ross. Jaime was curious. And, fool that he is, he let that insufferable young man sell him a painting. Probably paid ten pesos for it, too.
    Mrs. Ross finished her coffee. “What time did Señor Hoblitt arrive to paint this morning?”
    “Shortly after eight, Señora.”
    “What Mass did the Señorita Paulita attend?”
    “But she always attends the first Mass at five-thirty, Señora.” Serena appeared puzzled. “I saw her there myself.”
    “Then Señor Hoblitt did not see Paulita outside … on her crutches.”
    “Oh!” Serena shook her head, braids dancing. “He is like all artists: a late ariser. María Carlotta says he seldom gets himself up before seven-thirty.”
    Mrs. Ross nodded.
    “Is it wrong that Señor Hoblitt should see the Señorita on her crutches?” asked Serena. She half-turned her head, bent forward. One braid slipped over her shoulder to swing in front of Mrs. Ross—a silver-bowed pendulum.
    Mrs. Ross eyed the braid, succumbed to inspiration. “It makes great danger,” she muttered.
    “Ahhhh!” Serena jerked upright, eyes growing large. “It makes great danger for an artist to see someone on crutches!”
    ***

Chapter 8
    “The very worst kind of danger,” said Mrs. Ross. “Now, run and get me some more coffee.” She snuggled against the pillows, hugged private enjoyment from the fact that Don Jaime had sent the doctor. He always did. Still … it was a warm gesture.
    O O O
    The next morning—Monday—Serena appeared with the breakfast tray: coffee in a pale green cup, the pill sitting in its own little yellow bowl like a magenta seed in a blossom. She raised the shades to their sick-room half-mast, helped