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Toni had already heard about his trip, thanks to the facility with which the most insignificant news circulates through the calm, monotonous atmosphere of a Biscayan city open-mouthed for gossip. "They are saying something more," said Toni in his provincial Majorcan dialect, "something that I can't believe. They say you're going to marry the atlota of Don Benito Valls!"
Only once in thirty years had he varied his route through the white and deserted sunny streets. One morning he had heard a woman's voice issuing from the interior of a house: "Atlota twelve o'clock; Don Horacio is passing. Put on the rice." He turned toward the door, saying with lordly gravity: "I'm no wench's clock!" He jerked out the abusive words without sacrificing any of his dignity.
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