It would be half an hour before the entertainment began, but only the boxes were reserved; long before the signal nearly every seat was occupied, from the vulnerable lower row up to the light Moorish arcade through which the sky looked even bluer than above. It was a various and picturesque sight to foreign eyes. Scarcely a woman wore a hat. There were many mantillas, of a texture and pattern so fine there could be no doubt of the breeding of the owners. A few wore the black rebosa, but by far the greater number were bareheaded, their hair very smooth, and ornamented with high combs, flowers, or pins. There were enough handsome Spanish shawls on the shoulders of the women this fiery day to have furnished a bazaar—brilliant blue shawls heavily embroidered and fringed with white, black shawls, white shawls, red shawls, all of silk, all embroidered and fringed. And it was already a thirsty crowd. Venders were forcing their way between the seats, selling water out of jugs and wine out of skins, and even here the water made a wider appeal than the wine. It was anything but a cruel sea of faces, hard though the Spanish type may be. Many a group of women had their heads together, gossiping, no doubt, while the men waited in stolid expectation of the treat in store, signalled to brighter eyes, or discussed the chances of the day and the talents of the espadas who would do the bulls to death. “They all now take the sacrament,” the señora informed Catalina, who translated for the benefit of the two men. “Last night they confessed and fasted, and their wives pray until the fight is over.” Mr. Moulton snorted, then reminded himself that he was pleasuring, and ordered his critical faculty into the depths of its shop. “By Jove!” said Over. “Somebody you know?” asked Catalina. “Heavens, what a caricature!” “She is a ripping nice woman, and a countrywoman of your own—a Mrs. Lawrence Rothe, of New York. I met her about in London. Remember, now, she told me she was coming to Spain. She’s a bit made up, but what of that? So many are, you know. You should see London at the fag end of the season.” “A bit!” Catalina lifted her nose with young intolerance. “Her hair looks like a geranium-bed. Is that her son? He is rather good-looking.” “That is her husband; they have been married several years. He’s quite a decent chap—keen on horses—he looks older than he is—thirty—I fancy. Still, I’m rather sorry for him.” “I should think so. She must be fifty.” “That is severe of you. She’s probably getting on to forty-five—not more. I’m told she was a ripping fine woman five years ago, but she has had a lot of trouble—all her children refuse to speak to her, and she got a divorce to marry Rothe. She’s really very jolly. If you will excuse me a minute I’ll go and speak to her.”