"Here comes Brett," Bill said.
I looked and saw her coming through the crowd in the square, walking, her head up, as though the fiesta were being staged in her honor, and she found it pleasant and amusing.
"Hello, you chaps!" she said. "I say, I have a thirst."
"Get another big beer," Bill said to the waiter.
"Shrimps?"
"Is Cohn gone?" Brett asked.
"Yes," Bill said. "He hired a car."
The beer came. Brett started to lift the glass mug and her hand shook. She saw it and smiled, and leaned forward and took a long sip.
"Good beer."
"Very good," I said. I was nervous about Mike. I did not think he had slept. He must have been drinking all the time, but he seemed to be under control.
"I heard Cohn had hurt you, Jake," Brett said.
"No. Knocked me out. That was all."
"I say, he did hurt Pedro Romero," Brett said. "He hurt him most badly."
"How is he?"
"He'll be all right. He won't go out of the room."
"Does he look badly?"
"Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute."
"Is he going to fight?"
"Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind."
"How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said.
"Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said. "She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly."
Brett stood up.
"I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael."
