“I will go and speak to Jovita,” said José, and he went, leaving the four together.
The two simpler ones were somewhat abashed by the splendor of the dashing figure; they gazed at it with mingled curiosity and joy. To be so near it was enough, without effort at conversation. Sebastiano moved to Pepita’s side. A Spanish lover loses little time.
“I saw you,” he said, “at the bull-fight.”
Pepita looked over his shoulder and smiled at a passing woman who had greeted her. Her face dimpled, and she showed her small white teeth. It was as if she did not see the matador at all.
“It was at the bull-fight,” he persisted. “Two weeks ago. You had a red flower in your hair, as you have to-day. Ever since—”
“It was not true,” Pepita said gayly, to Isabella, “what I said of Jovita. She is always cross, but she does not wish to go home. She met an old woman she knew in her young days, and is enjoying herself very much.”
“Why did you say it?” asked Isabella, with simple wonder.
“Because I wished to go home myself.”
“Truly!” said Isabella. “Why is that?”
“I am not entertained so much to-day,” answered Pepita.