This I took, reflecting that he who will see Spain must not expect luxury. The real Spaniard lives roughly and shows himself only to those who are willing to rough it with him. As I sat down, the blind man addressed me:
"Hot days these on the road, señor."
"Verdad es," I answered.
"You are a foreigner from the north," he remarked casually, as if to himself.
"Yes; but how do you know that?"
"Oh, a simple matter," he replied. "That you are a foreigner, by your speech. That you are from the north, because you only half pronounce the letter R. You said 'burro' in speaking of our four-legged companion there, whereas the word is 'bur-r-r-ro.' You have walked many leagues."
"What tells you that?"
"Carajo! Nothing simpler. Your step is tired, you sit down heavily, you brush your trousers and a thick dust arises."
Blindness, I had hitherto fancied, was an advantage only during certain histrionic moments at the opera, but here was a man who evidently made it a positive blessing.
"Your are about twenty-five," he continued.