Don Rodriguez came in presently with de Losa's letter open in his hand. He was a lean man of middle age, with eyes rather too close-set to be trusted, Beauvallet thought. They shifted here and there, never resting for long on any one object. His mouth bore some resemblance to his son's, but there was weakness in the lines about it, and a kind of petulant uncertainty in the slightly pouting underlip. He received the Chevalier kindly, and said a great deal that was proper on the sad subject of his brother-in-law's death. His sighs were gusty, he shook his head, cast down his eyes to the floor, and meandered on in his talk of the exigencies of the West Indian climate. Beauvallet was becoming impatient of this tedious exchange of futilities when they were interrupted by a sound on the gravel walk outside. The long window was darkened, and there was the gentle hush of a lady's skirts. Sir Nicholas turned quickly, but the lady who stood looking in was not Dominica. She was a large woman, built on flowing lines, and dressed very richly in an embroidered gown of purple mochado. Her hair was extravagantly coiffed, her farthingale brushed the window-frame on either side as she came through, and her ruff stood up high behind her head. She was certainly handsome, and must have been lovely before increasing years made her stout. Her mouth was faintly smiling, and her eyes, almond-shaped under weary eyelids, smiled too. The hinted smile betokened a sort of compassionate amusement, as though the lady looked cynically upon her world, and found it foolish. She moved as one who would never hurry, and in spite of her ungainly farthingale she walked with a certain lazy grace. "Ah, Chevalier! My wife--Doña Beatrice," Don Rodriguez said. He addressed the lady with a hint of fluster in his voice as though he stood in lively awe of her. "My love, permit me to present to you a noble stranger to Madrid--M. le Chevalier de Guise." The disillusioned eyes ran over Sir Nicholas; the smile seemed to deepen. Doña Beatrice held out a passive hand, and appeared to approve Beauvallet as he bent over it. Her voice was as languid as her carriage. "A Frenchman," she remarked. "I had ever a kindness for a Frenchman. Now, what do you make here, Chevalier?" "Nothing but my pleasure, señora." It seemed an effort to her to raise her brows. "Do you find pleasure in Madrid?" she inquired. She went to a chair and sank into it, and began slowly to fan herself. "I find it unbearably fatiguing." "Why, señora, I find much pleasure here," Beauvallet answered. "You are young," she said, in extenuation. "And French. So much vigour! So much enthusiasm!" "Plenty of food for enthusiasm in Madrid, madam," said Sir Nicholas politely. "Ah! But when you attain to my years, señor, you will realize that there is nothing in the world to feed enthusiasm." "I shall hope to preserve my illusions, madame." "It is far better to have none," drawled the lady.