The two men walked on a few paces, when the guitarist shrugged, spread a hand, and said:
“They always laugh at you!”
Strawbridge stared at him.
“Who?” he asked.
“A bride… that bride… any bride.”
The American had been so absorbed in the matter of the police and the street address that he had followed none of this by-play.
“A bride?” he repeated blankly.
“Yes, she married three nights ago. Caramba! The house was crowded, and everybody was tipsy. The guests overflowed out here, into the calle…” He broke off to look back at the window, after a moment waved his hand guardedly, then turned around and resumed his observations:
“Don't you think there is something peculiarly attractive… well, now… er… provocative in a young girl who has just been married?”
The American stared at his new acquaintance, vaguely outraged.
“Why—great God!—no!”
