“Yes.”
“What’s his name?”
“Sevino.”
“And why do you call him that?”
“Because he walked right into our house without anybody bringing him.”[3]
They entered the bun shop. It was a spacious place, adorned with columns, at the rear of which was the kitchen, with its huge caldron for making buns. Two gas-lights, the burners of which were surrounded by white globes, shed a sad illumination upon the walls and the square columns, which were covered by white tiles bearing blue designs. Manuel and the girl sat down at a table near a door that led to a back street.
The girl prattled away at a merry clip as she dipped pieces of a bitter coffee-cake into the cup of chocolate. Her name was Petra, but they called her Matilde because that sounded so much better. She was sixteen years old and lived on the Calle del Amparo in an attic. She got up at two; but by the time she arose her mother had already done the house chores. She did not go out till evening. She sold a handful of Heraldos and ten Correos, and after that ... whatever turned up. All the money she earned she gave to her mother, and when her mother suspected that she was holding any back, she caught it hot and heavy.
Manuel sipped his glass of whiskey gravely, listened to what she said yet understood hardly a word.
The lass was ugly, in all truth. Her face was caked with powder. To Manuel, after a long scrutiny, it occurred that she looked like a fish smothered in flour, waiting for the frying-pan. As she spoke she made all manner of grimaces and moved her white, bulging eyelids, which fell over her darting eyes.
The girl babbled on about her mother, her brother, an uncle of hers who owned a news-stand and every morning advanced a duro to the kids who sold the Blanco y Negro, requiring the children to bring back the duro plus a peseta at the end of the day,—and about a host of other matters.