Santa, who had at first felt threatened and had gotten up and retreated across the room (without worrying that her nightgown slipped almost off as she did since Hipólito obviously could not see her) relaxed as the musician sank back onto the couch and sat there, submissive and imploring, with the humble attitude of a poor devil who knows that he has overstepped his bounds and fears a reprimand. At the same time, she read in his horrid whitish eyes, in his entire being, a deep and overpowering affection engendered by her, nourished by her. And for the first time, he did not look so ugly to her. He was no Adonis, admittedly—all right, he was ugly—but not a monster. Ugly on the outside, then, but what if, on the inside, he really was different from the men who possessed her daily and made her feel inferior and degraded? What if Hipólito actually thought she was perfect and better than him? What if he actually made her happy?

No, no that was crazy. Hipo was a real monster, all right: a piano player in a brothel, filthy, poorly dressed, and utterly destitute, an individual possibly worse off than herself. She imagined what the girls would say if she left the house to live with him. No way on earth!

“You don't have any response at all, Santita?” gently inquired Hipólito, still slumped on the sofa in an attitude of defeat.

“Yes, Hipo, I'm going to answer you,” replied Santa, who, searching deeply, found inside her a shred of decency that she was pleased to confer upon him, doing so with the righteousness of a person who gives her last coin to a beggar.

“I know that you love me. You've proven it to me on various occasions. And, for right now, honestly … I don't love you … but you don't make me sick or want to throw up or anything, I mean … no, no! And it would even make me real sad, Hipo, if I found out you didn't like me anymore. Go figure, huh? I kind of feel like your affection protects me against stuff that could happen to me, stuff that probably will happen. And I feel like”—here she became solemn and sincere, glimpsing something dark in her future—“you and I will never be separated. How can I say? Like you and I will be together in hard times to come. And I'm sure that one day I will love you … I don't know when … someday! Who is it?” she barked in annoyance at a knock on the door.

“It's me, señorita Santa,” answered Eufrasia from the other side of the door. “A coach is here to pick you up. That gentleman, Rubio, sent it, and he says he's waiting for you you-know-where.”

“Okay, tell it to wait. I'll be down in a minute.”

Santa began to dress in great haste, unhindered by modesty that she no longer possessed and had no need for, at any rate, in the presence of her blind suitor.