“Not so far as it used to be. Nowadays one can go all the way in a sleeping car. Gautier, who discovered it, had to go in a stage-coach, which must have been tedious. But in spite of the railways the place is pretty much the same as it has been ever since the Middle Ages. Even the cholera has been unable to banish the local color. There are trains in Seville precisely as there are steamboats on the Grand Canal. But the sky is the same, and in the Sierra Morena there are still Moors and as yet no advertisements.” “You have been there then?” “Yes, I was there some years ago. You ought to go yourself. I know of nothing so fabulous in its beauty. It is true I was there in the spring, but the autumn ought not to be a bad time to go. The country is parched perhaps, but then you would hardly camp out.” “What do you say, Incoul?” Blydenburg asked. “Wouldn’t you like it?” he inquired of Maida. “I could tell better when we get there,” she answered; “but we might go,” she added, looking at her husband. “Why,” said Blydenburg, “we could see Madrid and Burgos and Valladolid. It’s all in the way.” Lenox interrupted him. “They are tiresome cities though, and gloomy to a degree. Valladolid and Burgos are like congeries of deserted prisons, Madrid is little different from any other large city. Fuenterrabia, next door here, is a thousand times more interesting. It is Cordova you should visit and Ronda and Granada and Sevilla and Cadix.” And, as he uttered the names of these cities, he aromatized each of them with an accent that threw Blydenburg into stupors of admiration. Pronounced in that way they seemed worth visiting indeed. “Which of them do you like the best?” “I liked them all,” Lenox answered. “I liked each of them best.” “But which is the most beautiful?” “That depends on individual taste. I prefer Ronda, but Grenada, I think, is most admired. If you will let me, I will quote a high authority: “‘Grenade efface en tout ses rivales; Grenade Chante plus mollement la molle sérénade; Elle peint ses maisons des plus riches couleurs, Et l’on dit, que les vents suspendent leurs haleines, Quand, par un soir d’été, Grenade dans ses plaines, Répand ses femmes et ses fleurs.’” In private life, verse is difficult of recitation, but Lenox recited well. He made such music of the second line that there came with his voice the sound of guitars; the others he delivered with the vowels full as one hears them at the Comédie, and therewith was a little pantomime so explanatory and suggestive that Blydenburg, whose knowledge of French was of the most rudimentary description, understood it all, and, in consequence, liked the young man the better.