“I can’t look at him.” “He’s nice to look at,” I said. “I’ve always done just what I wanted.” “I know.” “I do feel such a bitch.” “Well,” I said. “My God!” said Brett, “the things a woman goes through.” “Yes?” “Oh, I do feel such a bitch.” I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands. “Won’t you have a drink?” “You must have a drink with me,” he said. He seated himself, asking Brett’s permission without saying anything. He had very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face. “You like cigars?” I asked. “Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars.” It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake. “You fight to-morrow?” I said. “Yes,” he said. “Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?” “No,” I said. “Badly?” He shook his head. “Nothing. Here,” he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart. “Oh!” he said in English, “you tell fortunes?” “Sometimes. Do you mind?” “No. I like it.” He spread his hand flat on the table. “Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire.” He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. “Look,” he said, “do you see any bulls in my hand?” He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. “There are thousands of bulls,” Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. “Good,” Romero laughed. “At a thousand duros apiece,” he said to me in Spanish. “Tell me some more.” “It’s a good hand,” Brett said. “I think he’ll live a long time.” “Say it to me. Not to your friend.” “I said you’d live a long time.” “I know it,” Romero said. “I’m never going to die.” I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. “No. Don’t do that. The bulls are my best friends.” I translated to Brett. “You kill your friends?” she asked. “Always,” he said in English, and laughed. “So they don’t kill me.” He looked at her across the table. “You know English well.” “Yes,” he said. “Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English.” “Why?” asked Brett. “It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet.” “Why not?” “They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that.” “What are bull-fighters like?” He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. “Like at the table,” he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. “No. I must forget English.”