In the quiet street where Doña Sol lived, a street of aristocratic houses, with curved ironwork gratings and large glazed balconies, they found the other "garrochistas" who were waiting at the door, motionless in their saddles and leaning on their lances. They were mostly young men, relations or friends of Doña Sol's, who saluted the torero with courteous amiability, pleased that he should be of the party. At last the Marquis de Moraima came out of the house, and mounted his horse immediately.
"My niece will be down directly. Women, you know! ... they are never ready."
He said this with the sententious gravity with which he always spoke, as if his words were oracles. He was a tall spare man, with large white whiskers, but his eyes and mouth preserved an almost childlike ingenuousness. Courteous and measured in his language, quick in his gestures, seldom smiling, he was quite a great nobleman of the olden days: Clad almost always in riding dress he hated town life, bored by the social obligations that his rank imposed on him when he was in Seville, longing to range the country with his farmers and herdsmen whom he treated familiarly as comrades. He had almost forgotten how to write from want of practice, but when anyone spoke to him of fighting bulls, of the rearing of horses and bulls, or of agricultural work, his eyes sparkled with determination, and you recognised at once the great connoisseur.
Some clouds passed over the sun, and the golden light faded from the white walls of the street; some looked up at the sky, to the narrow strip of blue visible between the two lines of roofs.
"Do not be uneasy," said the Marquis gravely.... "As I came out of the house I saw the wind blowing a piece of paper in a direction I know. It will not rain."
Every one seemed reassured. It could not rain, as the Marquis had said it would not. He knew the weather just as well as an old shepherd, and there was no danger of his being mistaken.
Then he came up to Gallardo.
"This year I shall provide you with magnificent corridas. What bulls! We shall see if you will kill them like good Christians. Last year, you know, I was not at all pleased, the poor brutes deserved better."
Doña Sol now appeared, raising with one hand her dark riding habit, beneath which appeared her high grey leather riding boots. She wore a man's shirt with a red cravat, a jacket and waistcoat of violet velvet, and her small velvet Andalusian hat rested gracefully on her curling hair.
She mounted lightly, taking her garrocha from a servant. While she saluted her friends, apologizing for having kept them waiting, her eyes were watching Gallardo. Don José pricked on his horse to make the presentation, but Doña Sol was beforehand with him, going up to the torero.