He lighted his cigar, wrapped the bloody ear in a rag, put it in his pocket, and went down into the street, directing his steps toward the Café Imperial, with the hope of there receiving fresh congratulations from his intelligent friends, and to spend the whole afternoon talking about the bull-fight of Vallecas: on the way he intended to call at Severini's.
It was half-past three, and pretty hot. Our lieutenant (for he had been promoted) was walking along the Calle del Baño, dressed in the latest style, in Prince Albert coat tightly buttoned up, light pantaloons, patent leather boots, and a sombrero with a peaked crown.
It was his idea to dress himself so in place of his ordinary "b'hoy's" fighting garb, so as to give greater force and relief to his portentous sword-thrust of the day before. He walked slowly, with the assured and overweening gait of a man satisfied with himself, casting keen glances at those whom he passed, to see if they recognized him, and puffing forth great clouds of smoke. Never had he felt so happy in body and mind.
At the door of a "dairy" a young girl was seated with a book in her hands. Enrique, as he passed, glanced at her, and the philanthropic feelings which he felt toward every living thing caused him to pause a moment and gaze at her with smiling eyes. The girl looked up with her big black eyes, the expression of which was half proud and half mischievous, and after staring at him for some time, she again gave her attention to her book, showing marked indifference.
Enrique stepped up in front of her, and stopped, saying in mellifluous accents:—
"What are you reading, my beauty?"
The girl again raised her eyes, and after staring at him sharply, replied:—
"The Lives of the Four Rascals."
And she dwelt long on the last word.
Enrique was a little confused, but he stood with the smile still on his lips. The girl again buried herself in her book. After a while she raised her head once more, and said vivaciously, in an ironical tone, in which her irritation was expressed:—