"Eat with one hand."
"Ah!"
I seemed to be pressing the little hand of a girl of six; my knife fell to the ground; a dark veil settled upon the chop.
Suddenly my hand was empty: I opened my eyes, saw the girl all disturbed, and looked behind me. Gracious Heavens! There was a handsome young fellow, with a stylish little jacket, tight breeches, and a velvet cap. Oh terrors! a torero! I gave a start as if I had felt two banderillas de fuego planted in my neck.
"I see it at a glance," said I to myself, like the man at the comedy; and one could not fail to understand. The girl, slightly embarrassed, made the introduction: "An Italian passing through Cordova," and she hastened to add, "who wants to know when the train leaves for Seville."
The torero, who had frowned at first sight of me, was reassured, told me the hour of departure, sat down, and entered into a friendly conversation. I asked for the news of the last bull-fight at Cordova: he was a banderillero, and he gave me a minute description of the day's sport. The girl in the mean time was gathering flowers from the vases in the patio. I finished my meal, offered a glass of Malaga to the torero, drank to the fortunate planting of all his banderillas, paid my bill (three pesetas, which included the beautiful eyes, you understand), and then, putting on a bold front, so as to dispel the least shadow of suspicion from the mind of my formidable rival, I said to the girl, "Señorita! one can refuse nothing to those who are taking leave. To you I am like a dying man; you will never see me again; you will never hear my name spoken: then let me take some memento; give me that bunch of flowers."
"Take it," said the girl; "I picked it for you."
She glanced at the torero, who gave a nod of approval.
"I thank you with all my heart," I replied as I turned to leave. They both accompanied me to the door.
"Have you bull-fights in Italy?" asked the young man.