“Go on!  Go on!” cried a dozen exasperated voices.

“Well!  Such a donas.  Ay, he is a generous lover.  A yellow crepe shawl embroidered with red roses.  A white one with embroidery so thick it can stand up.  A string of pearls from Baja California. (Ay, poor Ysabel Herrera!) Hoops of gold for the little ears of La Tulita.  A big chain of California gold.  A set of topaz with pearls all round.  A rosary of amethyst—­purple like the violets.  A big pin painted with the Ascension, and diamonds all round.  Silks and satins for gowns.  A white lace mantilla, Dios de mi alma!  A black one for the visits.  And the night-gowns like cobwebs.  The petticoats!” She stopped abruptly.

“And the smocks?” cried her listeners, excitedly.  “The smocks?  They are more beautiful than Blandina’s?  They were pack in rose-leaves—­”

“Ay! yi! yi! yi!” The old woman dropped her head on her breast and waved her arms.  She was a study for despair.  Even she did not suspect how thoroughly she was enjoying herself.

“What!  What!  Tell us!  Quick, thou old snail.  They were not fine?  They had not embroidery?”

“Hush the voices.  I tell you when I am ready.  The girls are like crazy.  They look like they go to eat the things.  Only La Tulita sit on the chair in the door with her back to all and look at the windows of Dona Maria.  They look like a long row of suns, those windows.

“I am the one.  Suddenly I say:  ‘Where are the smocks?’ And they all cry:  ’Yes, where are the smocks?  Let us see if he will be a good husband.  Dona Carmen, where are the smocks?’

“Dona Carmen turn over everything in a hurry.  ’I did not think of the smocks,’ she say.  ’But they must be here.  Everything was unpack in this room.’  She lift all up, piece by piece.  The girls help and so do I. La Tulita sit still but begin to look more interested.  We search everywhere—­everywhere—­for twenty minutes.  There—­are—­no—­smocks!”

“God of my life!  The smocks!  He did not forget!”

“He forget the smocks!”

There was an impressive pause.  The women were too dumfounded to comment.  Never in the history of Monterey had such a thing happened before.

Faquita continued:  “The girls sit down on the floor and cry.  Dona Carmen turn very white and go in the other room.  Then La Tulita jump up and walk across the room.  The lashes fall down over the eyes that look like she is California and have conquer America, not the other way.  The nostrils just jump.  She laugh, laugh, laugh.  ‘So!’ she say, ’my rich and generous and ardent bridegroom, he forget the smocks of the donas.  He proclaim as if by a poster on the streets that he will be a bad husband, a thoughtless, careless, indifferent husband.  He has vow by the stars that he adore me.  He has serenade beneath my window until I have beg for mercy.  He persecute my mother.  And now he flings the insult of insults in my teeth.  And he with six married sisters!’