“And there—over there you see a Moorish plate, painted with a luster of blue and copper. And there—the golden pottery of Malaga—you have heard of that, señor? Madre miu, what beautiful pottery they made—those Musselmen of Malaga!” He pointed at the lower shelf. “See it gleam, señor like purest gold. But to you, señor, you who have been to España—because we understand these things, you and I—will I sacrifice my treasure.”
“No,” I said. “The price does not matter.”
On the wall, above the red glow of the lantern, hung an unframed canvas. In the amber light that shone on it from above I could see its great splashes of color—the glittering, gaudy parade of a bull-ring.
“That painting there,” I asked—“what is that?”
Again he put his hand upon my arm, and I felt myself shiver in the close, warm air of the room.
“The señor perhaps is rich?” His voice came hardly above a whisper; he strained upward toward my face as though to exchange some darkly mysterious secret. Un Americano rico,” he said, “and the money perhaps does not matter?”
“Perhaps,” I said, and shook off his hold upon my arm.
“If that be so, señor, there are many among my treasures I could show.”
“I have no money with me to-night,” I said.
He raised his hand deprecatingly. “Naturally, señor. We understand each other. To have money in the pocket—it makes no importance if one understands.”