the peas along with it to his customers.
It seemed a pretty convention, though we could not quite make out its
meaning, unless the peas were bestowed as a sort of bonus; but the
next convention was clearer to us. An old man in black corduroy with a
clean-shaven face and a rather fierce, retired bull-fighter air, bought
a whole dried stock-fish (which the Spaniards eat instead of salt cod)
talking loudly to the grocer and at us while the grocer cut it across in
widths of two inches and folded it into a neat pocketful; then a glass
of wine was poured from a cask behind the counter, and the customer
drank it off in honor of the transaction with the effect also of
pledging us with his keen eyes; all the time he talked, and he was
joined in conversation by a very fat woman who studied us not unkindly.
Other neighbors who had gathered in had no apparent purpose but to
verify our outlandish presence and to hear my occasional Spanish, which
was worth hearing if for nothing but the effort it cost me. The grocer
accepted with dignity the popularity we had won him, and when at last
our cab arrived from Mount Ararat with the mire of the subsiding Deluge
encrusted upon it he led us out to it through the small boys who swarmed
upon us wherever we stopped or started in Valladolid; and whose bulk was
now much increased by the coming of that very fat woman from within the
grocery. As the morning was bright we proposed having the top opened,
but here still another convention of the place intervened. In Valladolid
it seems that no self-respecting cabman will open the top of his cab
for an hour's drive, and we could not promise to keep ours longer. The
grocer waited the result of our parley, and then he opened our carriage
door and bowed us away. It was charming; if he had a place on Sixth
Avenue I would be his customer as long as I lived in New York; and to
this moment I do not understand why I did not bargain with that blond
boy to come to America with us and be with us always. But there was no
city I visited in Spain where I was not sorry to leave some boy behind
with the immense rabble of boys whom I hoped never to see again.

VI

After this passage of real life it was not easy to sink again to the
level of art, but if we must come down it there could have been no
descent less jarring than that which left us in the exquisite _patio_
of the College of San Gregorio, founded for poor students of theology in
the time of the Catholic