“What a tangle! Is that the way people fall in love—and out again?” Catalina felt puzzled and depressed. Life suddenly seemed commonplace, love a sort of cap-and-bells, to be worn now and again when convenient.
“Well, I wish you good luck,” she said. “Write me when you are really engaged, and I’ll send you a lot of jewels from our California mines—tourmalines and chrysoprases and turquoises and garnets and beryls. I have jugs full of them.”
Lydia’s eyes expanded. “Jugs full! They cost frightfully in New York. Will you really send me some?”
“What a fairy princess you are! I am only beginning to appreciate you, and now you are throwing us over—for good and all!”
“Good-bye,” said Catalina, kissing her. “At two, Captain Over, and don’t forget to bring Cousin Lyman. And make no confidences,” she murmured.
“But, my dear Catalina—why, of course, I cannot go—the idea is preposterous—”
“Now you are talking by the book. Why was Europe made except for the American to play in and refresh himself for the same old duties at home? And for a man of your intelligence to balk at a bull-fight—”
“It isn’t that I exactly balk—I mean I am not squeamish—and I could look away at the worst part—but I do not approve of bull-fights, and think it wrong to lend my countenance—”
“The bull-fight will go on just the same; and no one race is good enough to condemn the customs of another. See the world impartially and then go your own gait. Besides, you have come to study Spain, and how can you pretend to know it unless you see it at its most characteristic amusement? Don’t look at the arena if you had rather not—but think of the opportunity to see Spain en masse at its very worst!”
“There is much in what you say, but—great Heaven!—suppose it ever were known in America that I had been to a bull-fight! I should lose the confidence of a million people—I might be driven out of the Church—”
“There aren’t a dozen Americans in Toledo—and the bull-ring holds five thousand people. You can sit in the back of the box. No one will be looking at anything but the bull-fight, anyhow.”
Mr. Moulton drew a long sigh. He wanted very much to go to the bull-fight; and away from his family and alone with Catalina—whom he could never hope to influence—in this holiday crowd of dark, eager faces he felt almost emancipated and reckless. Over was ahead with the Señora Villéna and her daughter, and they were slowly making their way up the Calle de la Puerta Llana towards the Plaza Ayuntamiento. They reached it in a moment. It was so crowded with cabs and large, open carry-alls, waiting to take people to the bull-ring, that there was little room for foot-passengers. The carry-alls were very attractive with their six mules apiece, hung with bells and decorated with worsted fringe, and Mr. Moulton sighed again.