The Barennas had been established at their house in Toledo some weeks, and, for Julia, life had been dull enough. She had hastened northward, knowing well that her lover’s intrigues must necessarily bring him to the neighbourhood of the capital—perhaps to Toledo itself. Larralde had, however, hitherto failed to come near her, and the news of the day reported an increasing depression in the ranks of the Carlists. Indeed, that cause seemed now at such a low ebb that the franker mercenaries were daily drifting away to more promising scenes of warfare, while some cynically accepted commissions in the army of Espartero. ‘I always said that Don Carlos would fail if he employed such men—as—well, as he does,’ Madame Barenna took more than one opportunity of observing at this time, and her emphatic fan rapped the personal application home. She had just made this remark for perhaps the sixth time one evening when the door of the patio where she and Julia sat was thrown open, and Larralde—the person indirectly referred to—came towards the ladies. He was not afraid of Madame Barenna, and his tired face lightened visibly at the sight of Julia. Concha was right. According to his lights Larralde loved Julia. She, who knew every expression, noted the look in his face, and her heart leapt within her breast. She had long secretly rejoiced over the failure of the Carlist cause. Such, messieurs, is the ambition of a woman for the man she really loves. Señora Barenna rose and held out her hand with a beaming smile. She was rather bored that evening, and it was pleasant to imagine herself in the midst of great political intrigues. ‘We were wondering if you would come,’ she said. ‘I am here—there—everywhere—but I always come back to the Casa Barenna,’ he said gallantly. ‘You look tired,’ said Julia quietly. ‘Where are you from?’ ‘At the moment I am from Madrid. The city has been wrecked by a tornado—I myself almost perished.’ He paused, shrugged his shoulders. ‘What will you?’ he added carelessly. ‘What is life—a single life—in Spain to-day?’ Julia winced. It is marvellous how an intelligent woman may blind herself into absolute belief in one man. Señora Barenna shuddered. ‘Blessed Heaven!’ she whispered. ‘Why does not someone do something?’ ‘One does one’s best,’ answered Larralde, with his hand at his moustache. ‘But yes!’ said Madame eagerly. She had a shrewd common sense, as many apparently foolish women have, and probably put the right value on Señor Larralde’s endeavours. Father Concha and the General were, however, far away, and all women are time-servers.