“Well, not exactly; that—Ah! yes; I see! of course. He is a torero.”
“A what?”
“A mayo. I will explain it all to you. You will see them about in all places, and you will get used to them.”
“But I haven’t seen one other as yet.”
“No, and they are not all so gay as this, nor so new in their finery, you know.”
“And what is a torero?”
“Well, a torero is a man engaged in bull-fighting.”
“Oh! he is a matador, is he?” said I, looking at him with more than all my eyes.
“No, not exactly that;—not of necessity. He is probably a mayo. A fellow that dresses himself smart for fairs, and will be seen hanging about with the bull-fighters. What would be a sporting fellow in England—only he won’t drink and curse like a low man on the turf there. Come, shall we go and speak to him?”
“I can’t talk to him,” said I, diffident of my Spanish. I had received lessons in England from Maria Daguilar; but six weeks is little enough for making love, let alone the learning of a foreign language.