“And what good does that do you?” asked Don Gil.
“A whole lot. From a funereal and lachrymose individual, I am metamorphosing myself into a jolly misanthrope. By the time I reach old age, I expect to be as jolly as a pair of castanets.”
“Greek philosophy!” said Don Gil contemptuously.
“Señor Sabadía,” replied Escobedo, “you have the right to bother us all with your talk about the signs on the streets of Cordova, and about the customs of our respectable ancestors. Kindly grant us permission to comment upon life in our own fashion.”
“Risum teneatis,” said Don Gil.
“Do you see?” continued Escobedo—“That’s another thing that bothers me. Why does Don Gil have to thrust at us a quotation so common that even the waiters in the café know it?”
The archæologist, not deigning to notice this remark, commenced to recite an ancient Cordovese romance that went:
Jueves, era jueves,
día de mercado,
y en Santa Marina
tocaban rebato.
(Thursday, it was Thursday, Market Day, and in the Church of Santa Marina they rang the call to arms.)
Escobedo went on philosophising; a waiter in the café began to pile the chairs upon the tables; another put out the gas, and the customers went out into the street.