screws, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull-fighters had been developing a technic that simulated this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emotional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. Romero had the old thing, the holding of his purity of line through the maximum of exposure, while he dominated the bull by making him realize he was unattainable, while he prepared him for the killing.
"I've never seen him do an awkward thing," Brett said.
"You won't until he gets frightened," I said.
"He'll never be frightened," Mike said. "He knows too damned much."
"He knew everything when he started. The others can't ever learn what he was born with."
"And God, what looks," Brett said.
"I believe, you know, that she's falling in love with this bull-fighter chap," Mike said.
"I wouldn't be surprised."
"Be a good chap, Jake. Don't tell her anything more about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers."
"Tell me what drunks they are."
"Oh, frightful," Mike said. "Drunk all day and spend all their time beating their poor old mothers."
"He looks that way," Brett said.
"Doesn't he?" I said.
They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then the whips
