" He did
not consider himself when he thought of her marriage; in truth he put
himself in the background, for if some other man filled her life and her
heart his vocation would be gone, and there would be some dull hours for
him before he could become used to it. But he had an innocent feeling
that without this love, of which all men talked so much, the life he
wished to be bright would not be quite complete. She was too pretty and
too good never to be married--never to have a home of her own and some
fine fellow to love the dust she walked on. He himself was only Jose,
and a brother was, after all, a poor substitute for a lover who could
talk and sing and make jokes, and wear such a dashing air that she would
be proud of him.

"That is it," he said, sagely, to himself. "A woman must have some one
to be proud of, and she could never be proud of me. If I were Sebastiano
now, it would be different."

He stopped suddenly and rubbed his head, as his habit was when he was
startled or confused, and his face became rather red. Perhaps this was
because he remembered that among all the rest, the magnificent, the
illustrious, the beautiful Sebastiano was the one to whom she showed
least grace. In fact it was almost mysterious, her manner toward him.
They had seen him often--he had come in many evenings to sit under the
vines; when they went out for pleasure it somehow happened that they
nearly always met him; but when he joined them Pepita became at once
possessed of some strange wilful spirit. Upon reflection Jose found
that he had never yet heard her speak to him: it appeared to him as
he thought it over that she always by some device avoided answering
directly what he said to her.

"That is a strange thing," said Jose, deeply mystified, as he suddenly
realized this, "when one remembers how he can slay a bull. There is no
one else who can slay a bull as he can. It is enough to make one weep
for joy. And yet she can treat him ill."

But he did not know how ill; only Sebas-tiano knew that. Since the day
he had stood in the arena and had seen all in a moment, as if a star had
suddenly started into the sky, the small black head and rose of a face,
he had lived in a fevered dream--a dream in which he pursued always
something which seemed within his grasp and yet forever eluded him. What
had he cared for all the rest of the women? Nothing. It had confused
and angered him when they had thrown themselves in his way or sent him
off