"Wright thinks," said Mercedes pensively, "that at an affair almost entirely within the Spanish-Cuban set, the gentlemen appear attired as toreodores."
Wright looked aggrieved.
"Not at all," he contradicted, "only the Anglo-Saxon fashions for men are utterly devoid of beauty. I wish I had lived some time back—in the satin knee-breeches and lace cuff period."
"But you're bow-legged!" objected Bill insultingly.
"I am not," said Wright indignantly. "Observe!" He thrust out a far from unshapely calf, in tweed knickers. "If my extremities show a slight tendency to bow, it is merely a sign of physical strength, and many years spent in the saddle and on the base-ball diamond."
Said Mercedes to me, in an aside.
"Now, you know, my Mother would never have listened to such a discussion—in Madrid!"
"She would never have had the opportunity," I whispered back.
"To return to the Mendez ball," said Wright, raising his voice, with intent. "I thought a simple flower in my hair or thrust into my waistcoat...."
"You are an ass!" remarked Bill, yawning.