On going to our rooms, we hear the carpenters at work, and see the florists bringing in their wares.
The dancing-room being next to my apartment, I can see the finery from my door.
A wooden shed, about the length of a country barn, with bare benches set against white-washed walls, is brightened here and there by a bunch of ribbon, a wreath of paper flowers, and something like a score of lights.
One fiddle and one concertina make the orchestra.
On the other side, there are girls in brilliant colours, in the ripple of whose laughter you catch the music which a young man prefers to any sight or sound below the spheres.
As I am passing down the room, conducting two selioras to their seats, a young girl, slipping behind me, smashes an eggshell on my pate; an eggshell from which the meat has been drawn, and the inside filled with tinsel and coloured paper, cut so fine as to fall like snow.
A peal of laughter greets the girl's success.
It is a challenge.
When a shell is broken on your head, you have the right to claim a dance, during which you may crush your cascaron among the damsel's curls.
A romp ensues.
If senorita slips away, senor follows in pursuit.