Must you go on again in this infernal place?" he asked.
She nodded, laughter and admiration in her eyes.
"What happens if you chuck this infernal job?"
"I'm fired," said the girl. "I've a ten weeks' contract with these people."
"What do you get?"
"Two hundred and fifty pesetas a week," she said contemptuously. "It's a wonderful salary, isn't it?"
"How many more weeks have you to go before your contract is finished?"
"Another four," she said; "we're playing in Cadiz next week, in Seville the week after, then Malaga, then Granada."
"Do you like it?"
"Like it!" the scorn in her voice was her answer.
"The dresses belong to the troupe, I guess," he said. "Get into your street clothes and I'll wait for you."
"What are you going to do?" she asked, eyeing him narrowly.
"I'll make good your lost contract," he said.
He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't like to see an English girl--"
One of those multi-generational stories where young people get caught up in plots and grudges laid by their elders decades before. Wallace picks up and drops the threads in a slapdash way with way too much coincidence going on, and not enough transition. The ending is dissatisfying, as well.