“And it’s our last chance,” said Owen. Away he rushed to the place where they sold tickets, to book seats, and Kate went with him. As she came into the street, her heart sank. It was as if some little person inside her were sulking and resisting. Neither she nor Owen spoke much Spanish, there was a fluster at the ticket place, and an unpleasant individual came forward to talk American for them. It was obvious they ought to buy tickets for the “Shade.” But they wanted to economise, and Owen said he preferred to sit among the crowd, therefore, against the resistance of the ticket man and the onlookers, they bought reserved seats in the “Sun.” The show was on Sunday afternoon. All the tram-cars and the frightful little Ford omnibuses called _Camions_ were labelled _Torero_, and were surging away towards Chapultepec. Kate felt that sudden dark feeling, that she didn’t want to go. “I’m not very keen on going,” she said to Owen. “Oh, but why not? I don’t believe in them on principle, but we’ve never seen one, so we shall _have_ to go.” Owen was an American, Kate was Irish. “Never having seen one” meant “having to go.” But it was American logic rather than Irish, and Kate only let herself be overcome. Villiers of course was keen. But then he too was American, and he too had never seen one, and being younger, more than anybody he _had_ to go. They got into a Ford taxi and went. The busted car careered away down the wide dismal street of asphalt and stone and Sunday dreariness. Stone buildings in Mexico have a peculiar hard, dry dreariness. The taxi drew up in a side street under the big iron scaffolding of the stadium. In the gutters, rather lousy men were selling pulque and sweets, cakes, fruit, and greasy food. Crazy motor-cars rushed up and hobbled away. Little soldiers in washed-out cotton uniforms, pinky drab, hung around an entrance. Above all loomed the network iron frame of the huge, ugly stadium. Kate felt she was going to prison. But Owen excitedly surged to the entrance that corresponded to his ticket. In the depths of him, he too didn’t want to go. But he was a born American, and if anything was on show, he had to see it. That was “Life.” The man who took the tickets at the entrance, suddenly, as they were passing in, stood in front of Owen, put both his hands on Owen’s chest and pawed down the front of Owen’s body. Owen started, bridled, transfixed for a moment. The fellow stood aside. Kate remained petrified. Then Owen jerked into a smiling composure as the man waved them on. “Feeling for fire-arms!” he said, rolling his eyes with pleased excitement at Kate. But she had not got over the shock of horror, fearing the fellow might paw her. They emerged out of a tunnel in the hollow of the concrete-and-iron amphitheatre. A real gutter-lout came to look at their counterslips, to see which seats they had booked. He jerked his head downwards, and slouched off. Now Kate knew she was in a trap--a big concrete beetle trap.