There was nothing else to do. Santa smiled and allowed herself to be dressed by Pepa and two or three other girls attracted by all the fuss, a thoroughly decent operation supervised and applauded by Elvira, who, with silent nods, seemed to approve the rapid and fragmentary displays of Santa's nudity—a shoulder, an undulating breast, a glimpse of thigh. There was the provocative pink with just the slightest shadow of fine down, except when her dressing gown slipped, and to catch it Santa moved violently, exposing for a just a second, the jet black growth beneath her arm …

That night, the eight-o'clock meal, often silent and gloomy because of the approaching fray, seemed more like a party. Nobody reproached anybody, nor did irreconcilable jealousies and mortal rivalries flash in carefully made-up eyes. The usual obscene phrases and insulting nicknames were not bandied about, and for once nobody made fun of the servant. Under the benevolent gaze of Elvira—who granted her livestock the honor of her presence to celebrate the herd's new addition—moderately good spirits and exaggeratedly good manners reigned throughout the meal. The jokes were inoffensive, the laughter truly feminine, and the clink of the silverware unobtrusive. Indeed, the dining room resembled the ultra-modest refectory of an educational establishment for fashionable young ladies, and Elvira was moved to offer everyone a glass of her personal stock of wine, which had been brought out in Santa's honor. Very dignified in her responsible, managerial function, Pepa drank water as usual, and the poor girl nicknamed “Mosquito,” who looked though she might have tuberculosis, refrained from playing with her dessert the way the she normally did every night.

Suddenly, from downstairs, the strident, dissonant voice of Eufrasia called them back to reality:

“Doña Pepa, some gentlemen are here!”

Santa observed a horrid transformation, as the group of eight or ten women rose from their places as one, toppling their chairs, lighting and puffing on cigarettes to mask the smell of food, and hurriedly rinsing their mouths with water, some of which they spilled on the table cloth, some of which they spit on the floor. All then plunged down the steep staircase shouting and shoving, charging toward the money, smoothing their hair, chewing on their lips to make them bright red, and pulling their elbows close to their waists to make their breasts more prominent. All purposely made their high heels clatter on the steps, and, reaching the bottom, all stepped out with swaying hips like a line of bullfighters entering the ring.

Pepa went down slowly.

“You go down, too!” Elvira commanded Santa, “and order beer or champagne for the clients, depending on who they are, but make sure they order something. And if they come up to a room with you, no dumb stuff, eh? We talked about that already.”

Santa did not even hear the last part of these instructions, because the first part, the awful “you go down, too,” had made her tremble like a leaf, but she knew that she had to go down, to fight and fawn over the visitors, and oblige them to spend money.