Two of the onlookers got up from the bench and began to chaff Currito. The sly rascal was at home among jests, and he answered the repartee that they directed at him with great impudence.
“That’s a fine amber cigarette-holder, Currito,” said one of them.
“The Marquis,” he replied.
“A fine little cape, old boy,” said the other, turning over the muffler of the scoundrel’s cloak.
“The Marquis,” he repeated.
“This Currito,” said Señor José, “hasn’t an ounce of shame in him; for a long time he has lived on his wife, who is kept by a marquis, and he has the nerve to brag about it. Come here, Currito.”
Currito came to their table.
“Why do you keep boasting about your shame?” asked Señor José. “Don’t you do it again in front of me. Do you understand? If you do, I’ll skin you alive.”
“Very well, Señor José.”
“Come, have a glass, and then see if La Generosa is in any of the rooms here.”