"'When you're less of a simpleton,' she retorted, with a laugh. Then, in a more serious tone, 'Do you know, my son, I really believe I love you a little; but that can't last! The dog and the wolf can't agree for long. Perhaps if you turned gipsy, I might care to be your romi. But that's all nonsense, such things aren't possible. Pshaw! my boy. Believe me, you're well out of it. You've come across the devil—he isn't always black—and you've not had your neck wrung. I wear a woollen suit, but I'm no sheep.[1] Go and burn a candle to your majari,[2] she deserves it well. Come, good-bye once more. Don't think any more about La Carmencita, or she'll end by making you marry a widow with wooden legs.'[3]
"As she spoke, she drew back the bar that closed the door, and once we were out in the street she wrapped her mantilla about her, and turned on her heel.
"She spoke truth. I should have done far better never to think of her again. But after that day in the Calle del Candilejo I couldn't think of anything else. All day long I used to walk about, hoping I might meet her. I sought
