“She says,” put in Isabella, “that if she does not care, others will; but if she should care, the others—” She stopped, meeting Sebastiano’s eyes and becoming a little confused.
“What would happen then,” he said, “if she should care?”
“I do not know,” said Isabella; “but she never will—never.”
But if she changed often toward others, Sebastiano found no change in her mood toward him. They did not leave the gardens until late in the day. Jovita was enjoying too greatly the comradeship of her old woman, and was ready to enjoy any pleasure offered to her. Sebastiano had a full purse, and perhaps understood old women of Jovita’s class. He made himself very agreeable to these two, finding them the most comfortable seats and supplying them with things good to eat and drink, over which they gossiped together, leaving the young ones to amuse themselves as they pleased. They were very gay, the younger ones; even Manuel, elated by the presence and hospitalities of Sebastiano, made little jokes. But none of them were gayer than Pepita. She was the centre figure of the party; they all looked at her, listened to her, were led by her slightest caprice. They went here and there, did this or that, because she wished it. It was Sebastiano who was the host of the hour, but by instinct each knew it was Pepita who was the chief guest—who must be pleased.
“Is she pleased?” the matador asked José once in a low-toned aside. “Does she not entertain herself?”
“Does she not say so?” answered José, with some slight secret misgiving.
“I do not know,” said Sebastiano, looking down. “She does not speak to me.”
José pushed his hat aside and rubbed his forehead. His respect for Pepita’s whims had begun early in life and was founded on experience.
“She is young,” he faltered—“she is very young. When she enjoys herself she—”
He paused with an uneasy movement of his shoulders. It was quite terrible to him that she should treat with such caprice and disdain so splendid and heroic a person; but he knew there was nothing to be done.