Tim. Continue—continue, seriously, Juanito.
Juan. We leave off at where I was asleep on the carpet, when the loosened hair of the Tarifeña fell over my head and face, enfolding me as in a splendid black mantle of perfumed lace. Would you like anything more serious?
Tim. It goes well so.
Nem. Keep yourself to that height.
Tim. To the height of the carpet?
Nem. Each one mounts to the height of which he is worthy. Go on.
Juan. The dawn arrived. It was summer.
Tim. And yet it rained.
Juan. No, my dear fellow, a delightful morning: the balcony open: the East with splendid curtains of mist and of little red clouds, the sky blue and stainless, a light more vivid kindling into flame the distant horizon.