The next day came three huge bouquets for the ladies from Don Felipe, and no one could tell which was the more beautiful, though Patty declared that the presence of a _clavel_ in Paulette’s meant more than appeared to the uninitiated. “It is you, Polly, I am sure,” she told her friend. “The _clavel_ is always the token of a young man’s regard.” “Young man, did I hear you say?” “Oh, pshaw! Why such distinctions? A Spaniard’s, then. A Spanish man’s regard. Must I give up that lovely old palace just as I am beginning to appreciate, and was planning how to make it more cleanly?” Paulette shrugged her shoulders. “Sillee, Sillee, Sillee,” she chanted. “There is one thing I can do,” said Patty: “I can go and buy a post card of the place. Tomás and I saw some last evening, and I shall not tell you where they are.” “He will tell me.” “Oh, will he?” Patty turned and gave Paulette a swift scrutiny. “I believe you really would rather have the forty-dollar-a-year house than the twelfth century palace,” she remarked. “What a pity that it isn’t Tomás who owns the _palacio_, but then, poor old Don Felipe, what compensation would there be for him? Really, Polly, I made no mistake in calling him tiresome, and maybe I knew my Spanish better than I pretended when I said _es cansado_ instead of _esta_. Now I am going to get the post cards and I shall buy them all so there will be none left for you.” CHAPTER V MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME The next day there was such an influx of custom, so many cattlemen to demand meals, that the dining-room was insufficient to accommodate both these and Don Juan’s party; moreover, Matilda declared that it would not do to seat ladies at the table with so many rough men, therefore dinner was served in the little _sala_. “Six places,” said Doña Martina as they sat down. “Matilda has not counted noses this time; there is one too many.” She had hardly spoken when the door opened and in walked the young Englishman who had left them the week before. He bowed to the company and sat down at the end of the table. On his right was Patty, on his left Doña Martina. “As I was saying,” Patty began, in English, “a twelfth century palace may be very charming to look at and to live in during the summer, but in winter the saints deliver me from a chilly house.” The young man looked up brightly. “You are English, American, of course, and I fancied you were all Spaniards.” “We are a composite party.” Patty had found the entering wedge. “My sister and I are Americans, my brother-in-law is Spanish, and so, of course, is his brother, while my friend is French.” “Then you are a compatriot of mine.” “Are you an American?” It was Patty’s turn to be surprised. “We all thought you so deadly English.” “I have lived in England for a number of years. My mother was an Englishwoman. After my father’s death she went home to live and I completed my education in England.” “That accounts for it.”