your only child."

Her father did not respond to her gayety.

"Look-a-here, Panchita," he began, but she stopped him, flapping a
long hand.

"Cut it out, Pop. I know all that. You needn't come any stern parent
business over me. _I'm_ on. _I_ know my way about. I ain't going to run
my head into any noose, or tie any millstone round my neck. Don't you
think by this time you can trust me?"

Her words seemed to reassure him. The bovine intensity of his gaze
softened.

"You've had a heap of beaux," he said moodily.

"And kept every last one of 'em in their place, except for those I kicked
out. And they got to their place; my kick landed them there."

"Who is he?"

Pancha returned to her fig, looking over its wilted skin for
clinging tidbits.

"Named Mayer, a foreigner--at least he's born here, but he looks foreign
and acts foreign; hands out the kind of talk you read in books. Awful
high class."

"Treats you respectful?"