"Why couldn't you bring them to the proper entrance?" she cried.
But she let us in, took us through a yard in which huge stew-pots and frying-pans were cooking over a wood fire, and ushered us upstairs, past rooms filled with workmen diners, into a long chamber lit by a window at one end, with bullfight posters on the walls. She brought us a plate of stew and wine. We asked for bread.
"Why didn't you bring your own?" she said.
"We did not know," we answered.
"Oh, all right. I'll give you bread this time. But, next time, bring your own bread with you."
We thought, "Lorca is a rough place." There was a sound of loud chaffing, and in walked our agency boy of the train.
"Hullo," he exclaimed to us. "Are you here?"
"Yes," we answered. "And, now we see you here, we are sure this is the best place."
He grinned, chucked the waitress under the chin, and ordered a complex meal. As soon as the staff perceived our acquaintance with the agency boy, their manners changed. They became charming, inquiring after our need with a lively solicitude. We asked the diners about a posada. A bluff man, with a walrus moustache, seated at the same table, said the posada at which he was staying was comfortable.