I do think he is almost too much: too far.—And I don’t think he is Mexican.”
“Why not? Why not Mexican? He is Mexican.”
“Not as you are.”
“How not as I am? He is Mexican.”
“He seems to me to belong to the old, old Europe,” she said.
“And he seems to me to belong to the old, old Mexico—and also to the new,” he added quickly.
“But you don’t believe in him.”
“How?”
“You—yourself. You don’t believe in him. You think it is like everything else, a sort of game. Everything is a sort of game, a put-up job, to you Mexicans. You don’t really believe, in anything.”
“How not believe? I not believe in Ramón?—Well, perhaps not, in that way of kneeling before him and spreading out my arms and shedding tears on his feet. But I—I believe in him, too. Not in