7.30
My callers are all gone, and Elim is playing bull-fight with a red-velvet square from one of the tables, talking Spanish to himself and making every gesture of his game true to life. I am thankful the bull-fight season is over. No more doleful-faced servants of a Sunday, heartbroken, like children, because they are not swelling the gay throng passing the Embassy to the Ring, and making me feel like a wretch because they aren’t all there.
Nelson went down to try to look at his guns, presumably at the customs. At least, he is as near as that, with ears full of promises.
A telegram from Aunt L. says she starts up from the Hot Country in a day or two. I am having the lovely corner room next mine made ready for her.