“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. Before the archbishop’s palace a cab awaited the Señora Villéna. It held but three seats, and she turned with polite hesitation to Mr. Moulton and Captain Over, as they all stood, united at last, beside it. “I am so sorry,” she said, “but I fear—” “We are going in one of those omnibuses,” said Catalina, promptly. “I am simply dying to go that way—with the crowd; and of course you will not object, señora, so long as my cousin is with me.” The señora smiled, very much relieved. “Bueno,” she said. “And I will await you at the entrance to the sombra.” “You are a little wretch,” said Over as Mr. Moulton, flushed and excited, tucked the señora and her daughter into their cab. “It won’t hurt him, and he will be sure to let it out to Cousin Miranda.” “Oh, I see!” He laughed and went to the emptiest of the rapidly filling carry-alls to secure their seats. Catalina followed immediately, holding Mr. Moulton firmly by the arm. But that beacon-light of American literature had the instinct of the true sport in the depths of his manifold compromises. The die was cast, he had weakly permitted Catalina to commit him, and he would enjoy himself without his conscience.