“Who taught you English?” I inquired, prompted by a mysterious curiosity.
“Un American us teach—Don Emilio.”
“Ha! an American?”
“Yes, Señor,” said Don Cosmé: “a gentleman from Vera Cruz, who formerly visited our family.”
I thought I could perceive a desire upon the part of our host not to speak further on this subject, and yet I felt a sudden, and, strange to say, a painful curiosity to know more about Don Emilio, the American, and his connection with our newly-made acquaintance. I can only explain this by asking the reader if he or she has not experienced a similar feeling while endeavouring to trace the unknown past of some being in whom either has lately taken an interest—an interest stronger than friendship?
That mamma smoked was clear, for the old lady had already gone through the process of unrolling one of the small cartouche-like cigars. Having re-rolled it between her fingers, she placed it within the gripe of a pair of small golden pincers.
This done, she held one end to the coals that lay upon the brazero, and ignited the paper. Then, taking the other end between her thin, purlish lips, she breathed forth a blue cloud of aromatic vapour.
After a few whiffs she invited the major to participate, offering him a cigarrito from her beaded cigar-case.
This being considered an especial favour, the major’s gallantry would not permit him to refuse. He took the cigarrito, therefore; but, once in possession, he knew not how to use it.
Imitating the señora, he opened the diminutive cartridge, spreading out the edges of the wrapper, but attempted in vain to re-roll it.