"Yes, sir," she answered.
"What have you?"
"Eggs, sausages, chops, peaches, oranges, and wine of Malaga."
"Very good: you may bring everything you have."
She commenced by bringing me a table and a chair, and I sat down and waited. Suddenly I heard a door open behind me and turned.... Angels of heaven! what a sight I saw!—the most beautiful of all the most beautiful Andalusians, not only of those whom I saw at Cordova, but of all those whom I afterward saw at Seville, Cadiz, and Granada: if I may be allowed to use the word, a superb girl, who would make one flee or commit some deviltry; one of those faces which make you cry, "O poor me!" like Giuseppe Baretti when he was travelling in Spain. For some moments she stood motionless with her eyes fixed on mine as if to say, "Admire me;" then she turned toward the kitchen and cried, "Tia, despachate!" ("Hurry up, aunty!") This gave me an opportunity of thanking her with a stammering tongue, and gave her a pretence for approaching me and replying, "It is nothing," with a voice so gentle that I was obliged to offer her a chair, whereupon she sat down. She was a girl about twenty years old, tall, straight as a palm, and dark, with two great eyes full of sweetness, lustrous and humid as though she had just been in tears: she wore a mass of wavy jet-black hair with a rose among her locks. She seemed like one of the Arabian virgins of the tribe of the Usras for whom men died of love.
She herself opened the conversation:
"You are a foreigner, I should think, sir?"
"Yes."
"French?"
"Italian."