Juan. Yes, señor, the very thing. I once felt that which neither of you ever experienced.
Nem. Tell us, tell us. This ought to be curious. Another little glass, Timoteo.
Tim. Come. To the health of the disappointed genius. (Coughing.)
Nem. Of the unsuccessful genius. (Drinks.)
Don Juan is thoughtful.
Tim. Begin.
Juan. You remember the season we passed at my country seat in Sevilla, in the year—in the year——?
Tim. The year I don’t recollect—but very well do I remember the country-house, on the banks of the Guadalquivir, with an Oriental saloon, divans, carpets—those famous carpets.
Nem. True, true! I was always walking on them. Aniceta, the little gipsy—you remember?—used to cry out, “I am sinking, I am sinking.”
Tim. True, true! and as she was so little she used to sink out of sight, really.