V
We Preferred Walking Home From Senor Otero's House Through The Bright,
Quiescing Street, Because In Driving There We Had Met With An Adventure
Which We Did Not Care To Repeat.
We were driving most unaggressively
across a small plaza, with a driver and a friend on the box beside him
to help keep us from harm, when a trolley-car came wildly round a corner
at the speed of at least two miles an hour and crossed our track.
Our
own speed was such that we could not help striking the trolley in a
collision which was the fault of no one apparently. The front of the car
was severely banged, one mud-guard of our victoria was bent, and our
conversation was interrupted. Immediately a crowd assembled from the
earth or the air, but after a single exchange of reproaches between the
two drivers nothing was said by any one. No policeman arrived to
_constater_ the facts, and after the crowd had silently satisfied or
dissatisfied itself that no one was hurt it silently dispersed. The car
ambled grumbling off and we drove on with some vague murmurs from our
driver, whose nerves seemed shaken, but who was supported in a somewhat
lurching and devious progress by the caressing arm of the friend on the
seat beside him.
All this was in Seville, where the popular emotions are painted in
travel and romance as volcanic as at Naples, where no one would have
slept the night of our accident and the spectators would be debating it
still.
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