“Oh, how silly to appear in your most unbecoming gown before three men, not to mention the _mayordomo_. I shall wear my very best and outshine you all. You’d better wear that lovely soft green thing; you look better in that than in anything else.” “Perhaps I do,” returned Paulette. It was but a short distance to the station nearest Don Felipe’s old _palacio_ and the walk from the railway was a charming one through a long avenue arched over by great trees. Don Felipe stood on the steps to meet them, and with old-fashioned dignity and many compliments, conducted them up a long flight of stone steps which led inside the house, to the first floor. As the girls ascended, they caught sight of several carriages on one side of the lower floor and of some half dozen horses stamping in their stalls on the other. “How queer,” whispered Patty to her sister. “Do they always keep their horses and carriages in the basements of the palaces?” “Sh!” warned Doña Martina. “He knows some English,” and Patty subsided. They were ushered into a great hall, crowded with wonderful old furniture, carven chests, chairs and cabinets. On the walls hung dim but rare old pictures, in the cases in a corridor beyond they caught sight of collections of painted fans, of jewels, of fine porcelain. There was scarce an article to be seen which did not possess some history or which did not represent great antiquity. Patty flitted from one thing to another, commenting in broken Spanish on this, going into ecstasies in English over that, pouring out in voluble French her admiration of something else. Don Felipe spoke French fluently, and at last this came to be the accepted language, except when Don Tomás, looking bewildered, would ask for some explanation or would make the remark, “Shocking! Awful badth form.” Paulette was scarcely less vivacious than Patty, and her little French mannerisms, her gestures and exclamations were more pronounced, so that Don Felipe did not want for enthusiasm in his guests. He led them from room to room, pausing at last before the floor of a spacious old kitchen, whose black rafters and dim walls enclosed a scene which Doña Martina declared she would like to paint. Four or five old women hovered over the copper and brass vessels which were set over the fire in the huge fireplace. On the floor lay a watchful dog. Perched high on a dresser was the house cat. Baskets of vegetables and fruit lent color to a picture which indeed was well worth painting. “It is perfectly delightful,” declared Doña Martina for the third or fourth time. “The whole place is perfectly charming.” “It is yours, señora,” returned Don Felipe. “Do you think he would give me a copper kettle, that queer one over there?” whispered Patty to her sister, who, understanding Spanish hospitality perfectly, did not take Don Felipe at his word, but expressed the proper thanks and said that some time she would enjoy making a sketch.