‘Yes, I am deeply interested in Estella—as indeed is natural, for she is my niece. She has no mother, and the General has such absurd ideas. He thinks that a girl is capable of choosing a husband for herself. But to you—an Englishman—such an idea is naturally not astonishing. I am told that in your country it is the girls who actually propose marriage.’ ‘Not in words, Madame—not more in England than elsewhere.’ ‘Ah,’ said Madame, looking at him doubtfully, and thinking, despite herself, of Father Concha. Sir John rose from the chair he had taken at the señora’s silent invitation. ‘Then I may expect the General to arrive at my hotel this evening,’ he said. ‘I am staying at the Comercio, the only hotel, as I understand, in Toledo.’ ‘Yes, he will doubtless descend there. Do you know Frederick Conyngham, señor?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘But everyone knows him!’ exclaimed the lady vivaciously. ‘Tell me how it is. A most pleasant young man, I allow you—but without introductions and quite unconnected. Yet he has friends everywhere.’ She paused and, closing her fan, leant forward in an attitude of intense confidence and secrecy. ‘And how about his little affair?’ she whispered. ‘His little affair, Madame?’ ‘De cœur,’ explained the lady, tapping her own breast with an eloquent fan. ‘Estella,’ she whispered after a pause. ‘Ah!’ said Sir John, as if he knew too much about it to give an opinion. And he took his leave. ‘That is the sort of woman to break one’s heart in the witness box,’ he said as he passed out into the deserted street, and Señora Barenna, in the great room with the armour, reflected complacently that the English lord had been visibly impressed. General Vincente and Estella arrived at the hotel in the evening, but did not of course appear in the public rooms. The dusty old travelling carriage was placed in a quiet corner of the courtyard of the hotel, and the General appeared on this, as on all occasions, to court retirement and oblivion. Unlike many of his brothers-in-arms, he had no desire to catch the public eye. ‘There is doubtless something astir,’ said the waiter, who, in the intervals of a casual attendance on Sir John, spoke of these things, cigarette in mouth. ‘There is doubtless something astir, since General Vincente is on the road. They call him the Stormy Petrel, for when he appears abroad there usually follows a disturbance.’ Sir John sent his servant to the General’s apartment about eight o’clock in the evening asking permission to present himself. In reply, the General himself came to Sir John’s room. ‘My dear sir,’ he cried, taking both the Englishman’s hands in an affectionate grasp, ‘to think that you were in the hotel and that we did not dine together. Come, yes, come to our poor apartment, where Estella awaits the pleasure of renewing your acquaintance.’