Don Cornelio, driven into his last retrenchments, determined to make a clean breast of it.
"You must know," he said in a honeyed voice, "that my friends are hunters."
"Ah!" she remarked.
"Yes."
"Well, what then?"
"Why, then, why, they hunt, I suppose," he continued, discountenanced by the lady's singular tone.
"That is probable," she said, with a little silvery laugh. "And what do they hunt?"
"Well, pretty nearly all sorts of animals."
"Specify."
"Wild bulls, for instance."