‘Yes; that is it, Borrow. And he sells Bibles; and Father Concha, my confessor, a bear, but a holy man—a holy bear, as one might say—has forbidden me to buy one. I am so afraid of disobeying him, by heedlessness or forgetfulness. There are, it appears, some things in the Bible which one ought not to read, and one naturally—’ She finished the sentence with a shrug, and an expressive gesture of the fan. ‘One naturally desires to read them,’ suggested Sir John. ‘The privilege of all Eve’s daughters, Madame.’ Señora Barenna treated the flatterer to what the French call a _fin sourire_, and wondered how long Julia would stay away. This man would pay her a compliment in another moment. ‘I merely called on the excuse of a common friendship, to ask if you can tell me the whereabouts of General Vincente,’ said Sir John, stating his business in haste and when the opportunity presented itself. ‘Is it politics?’ asked the lady, with a hasty glance round the room. ‘No, it is scarcely politics; but why do you ask? You are surely too wise, Madame, to take part in such. It is a woman’s mission to please—and when it is so easy!’ He waved his thin white hand in completion of a suggestion which made his hearer bridle her stout person. ‘No, no,’ she whispered, glancing over her shoulder at the door. ‘No; it is my daughter. Ah! señor, you can scarce imagine what it is to live upon a volcano!’ And she pointed to the oaken floor with her fan. Sir John deemed it wise to confine his display of sympathy to a glance of the deepest concern. ‘No,’ he said; ‘it is merely a personal matter. I have a communication to make to my friend General Vincente or to his daughter.’ ‘To Estella?’ ‘To the Señorita Estella.’ ‘Do you think her beautiful? Some do, you know. Eyes—I admit—yes, lovely.’ ‘I admire the señorita exceedingly.’ ‘Ah yes, yes. You have not seen my daughter, have you, señor? Julia—she rather resembles Estella.’ Señora Barenna paused and examined her fan with a careless air. ‘Some say,’ she went on, apparently with reluctance, ‘that Julia is—well—has some advantages over Estella. But _I_ do not, of course. I admire Estella, excessively—oh yes, yes.’ And the señora’s dark eyes searched Sir John’s face. They might have found more in sculptured marble. ‘Do you know where she is?’ asked Sir John, almost bluntly. Like a workman who has mistaken his material, he was laying aside his finer conversational tools. ‘Well, I believe they arrive in Toledo this evening. I cannot think why. But with General Vincente one never knows. He is so pleasant, so playful—such a smile—but you know him. Well, they say in Spain that he is always where he is wanted. Ah!’ Madame paused and cast her eyes up to the ceiling, ‘what it is to be wanted somewhere, señor.’ And she gave him the benefit of one of her deepest sighs. Sir John mentally followed the direction of her glance, and wondered what the late Count thought about it.