“Why?” asked Brett.
“It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“They would not like it. Bullfighters are not like that.”
“What are bullfighters 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.”
“Don’t forget it, yet,” Brett said.
“No?”
“No.”
“All right.”
He laughed again.
“I would like a hat like that,” Brett said.
“Good. I’ll get you one.”
“Right. See that you do.”
“I will. I’ll get you one tonight.”
I stood up. Romero rose, too.