"What are you talking about?" asked Cobo Ramirez, joining the little circle.
He hardly ever sat down. He liked wandering from group to group, breathing as hard as an ox, and firing some audacious remark at each in turn. Ramoncito's brow darkened at his rival's approach. Cobo did not fail to perceive it and looked at him with a slight sneer.
"Well, Ramoncito? Tell me, how do you contrive to keep these ladies so well amused? I was just saying to Pepa that you really sparkle with wit."
"No, indeed. How should I sparkle when you monopolise it?" said the deputy, with some irritation.
"Well, well, my son, if you are afraid of me I will go."
An ironical smile, both bitter and triumphant, beamed on Ramoncito's sharp features. He had the enemy in a trap. It should be said that, a few days since, a learned discussion had given rise to a decision by an expert philologist that afraid was wrong and afeard alone was right.
"My dear Cobo," he exclaimed, throwing himself back in his chair and gazing at him with ironical amazement. "Before you talk in the presence of persons of quality you might learn to speak your mother-tongue. I mean—it seems to me——"
"Well?" said the other, in surprise.
"That no one now says afraid but afeard, my dear Cobo. I give you the information for your satisfaction and future guidance."
Ramon's manner as he spoke was so arrogant, and his smile so impertinent that Cobo, disconcerted for a moment, asked in a fury: