“’I told you so.  I saw at once he was a Basque.  Now you’ll hear what a queer language he speaks.  Doesn’t he look silly?  He’s like a cat that’s been caught in the larder!’

“‘And you,’ said I to her in my own language, ’you look like an impudent jade—­and I’ve a good mind to scar your face here and now, before your spark.’

“‘My spark!’ said she.  ’Why, you’ve guessed that all alone!  Are you jealous of this idiot?  You’re even sillier than you were before our evening in the Calle del Candilejo!  Don’t you see, fool, that at this moment I’m doing gipsy business, and doing it in the most brilliant manner?  This house belongs to me—­the guineas of that crayfish will belong to me!  I lead him by the nose, and I’ll lead him to a place that he’ll never get out of!’

“’And if I catch you doing any gipsy business in this style again, I’ll see to it that you never do any again!’ said I.

“’Ah! upon my word!  Are you my rom, pray that you give me orders?  If El Tuerto is pleased, what have you to do with it?  Oughtn’t you to be very happy that you are the only man who can call himself my minchorro?’*

     * My “lover,” or rather my “fancy.”

“‘What does he say?’ inquired the Englishman.

“‘He says he’s thirsty, and would like a drink,’ answered Carmen, and she threw herself back upon a sofa, screaming with laughter at her own translation.

“When that girl begins to laugh, sir, it was hopeless for anybody to try and talk sense.  Everybody laughed with her.  The big Englishman began to laugh too, like the idiot he was, and ordered the servant to bring me something to drink.

“While I was drinking she said to me: 

“’Do you see that ring he has on his finger?  If you like I’ll give it to you.’

“And I answered: 

“’I would give one of my fingers to have your milord out on the mountains, and each of us with a maquila in his fist.’

“‘Maquila, what does that mean?’ asked the Englishman.

“‘Maquila,’ said Carmen, still laughing, ’means an orange.  Isn’t it a queer word for an orange?  He says he’d like you to eat maquila.’

“‘Does he?’ said the Englishman.  ’Very well, bring more maquila to-morrow.’

“While we were talking a servant came in and said dinner was ready.  Then the Englishman stood up, gave me a piastre, and offered his arm to Carmen, as if she couldn’t have walked alone.  Carmen, who was still laughing, said to me: 

“’My boy, I can’t ask you to dinner.  But to-morrow, as soon as you hear the drums beat for parade, come here with your oranges.  You’ll find a better furnished room than the one in the Calle del Candilejo, and you’ll see whether I am still your Carmencita.  Then afterwards we’ll talk about gipsy business.’

“I gave her no answer—­even when I was in the street I could hear the Englishman shouting, ‘Bring more maquila to-morrow,’ and Carmen’s peals of laughter.