The silversmith shook his head in denial. She added, positively:
"That's the only way I'll go. Aren't we both going to have a good time? That's fair, for us both to pay half."
Berlanga accepted this friendly arrangement. As soon as they got into the street they hired a carriage. At Bombilla they had a first-rate supper and danced their heads off, till long past midnight. They went home afoot, slowly, arm in arm. Rafaela had drunk a bit too much, and often had to stop. Dizzy, she leaned her head on the silversmith's breast. Manolo, himself a bit tipsy and out of control, devoured her with his eyes.
"Say, you're a peach!" he murmured.
"Am I, really?"
"Strike me blind if you're not! Pretty, eh? More than that! You're a wonder—oh, great! The best I ever saw, and I've seen a lot!"
She still had enough wit left to pretend not to hear him, playing she was ill. She stammered:
"Oh, I—I'm so sick!"
Suddenly Berlanga exclaimed:
"If Zureda and I weren't pals——"