wears the long-lived mantilla, which will last our time and the time
of our grandsons. The humbler women-folk wear bright handkerchiefs
in place of the mantilla; in dress they affect bright colours.

With the sterner sex, the line of demarcation is equally distinct.
There is the man who wears the peasant's blouse, and the man who
wears the cloak.

It is with one of the latter that we have to deal--a tall, grave
man, with quiet eyes and a long, pointed chin. The air is chilly,
and this promenader's black cloak is thrown well over the shoulder,
displaying the bright-coloured lining of velvet, which is all the
relief the Spaniard allows his sombre self.

The caballero's face is brown, as of one whose walk is not always
beneath the shady trees. The expression of it is chastened. One
sees the history of a country in the faces of its men. In this
there is the history of a past, it is the face of a man living in a
bygone day. He notes the interest of the moment with grave
surprise, but his life is behind him.

This man has the Spaniard's thoughtful interest in a trifle. He
pauses to note the number of the sparrows, as thick as leaves upon
the trees. He carefully unfolds his cloak, gives the loose end a
little shake, and casts it skilfully over his shoulder, so that it
falls across his back, and, hanging there, displays the bright
lining. He pauses to watch the result of an infantile accident.
The baby picks itself up and brushes the dust from its diminutive
frock with all the earnestness of early youth. And the cavalier
walks on.