“If it was you, that’s another matter,” said Pacheco. “I know that you don’t like to stick your nose into other people’s affairs.”
Springer observed with surprise the prestige that Quentin enjoyed among that class of people. Pacheco and his friend, who was a toreador called Bocanegra, sat down. Quentin introduced them to the Swiss, and they all fell into an animated conversation.
Carrahola remained some distance away, in an attitude of suspicion.
“Come, Carrahola,” said Pacheco, “it was your fault.”
“Then excuse me, if I was wrong,” said Carrahola.
“Nothing has happened at all,” said Quentin, holding out his hand. “Take a glass, and let’s be friends.”
Bocanegra, the toreador, said ironically:
“Come now, Carrahola, this isn’t the first beating you ever had.”
“Nor will it be the last,” replied the other very seriously.
Springer watched the people with great curiosity. He was surprised at Pacheco’s courtesy: one could see that he was cultured; a man of natural superiority, neat, and with well-kept hands. The toreador was a strong-looking fellow with bright eyes and white teeth.