Cipriani de Lloseta drew forward a deep chair, and with a courteous gesture invited Fitz to be seated. He took a similar chair himself, and then leant forward, cigar-case in hand. "You know Mallorca," he said. Fitz took a cigar. "Yes," he answered, turning and looking into the Count's face with a certain honest interest. He was thinking of what Eve had said about this man. "Yes--I know Mallorca." The Count struck a match and lighted his cigar with the air of a connoisseur. "I am always glad," he said conversationally, "to meet any one who knows Mallorca. It--was my home. Perhaps you knew?" And through the blue smoke the quick dark eyes flashed a glance. "I saw your name--on the map," returned Fitz. The Count gave a little Spanish deprecatory nod and wave of the hand, indicating that it was no fault of his that an historical name should have attached itself to him. "Do you take whisky--and soda?" inquired the Count. "Thanks." De Lloseta called the waiter and gave the order with a slight touch of imperiousness which was one of the few attributes that stamped him as a Spaniard. The feudal taint was still running in his veins. "Tell me," he went on, turning to Fitz again, "what you know of the island--what parts of it--and what you did there." In some ways Fitz was rather a simple person. "Oh!" he answered unconsciously. "I went to D'Erraha mostly. I used to sail across from Ciudadela to Soller--along the coast, you know." "And from Soller?" "From Soller I rode by the Valdemosa road, and then across the mountain and through that narrow valley up to the Val d'Erraha." The Count was smoking thoughtfully. "And you were happy there?" he said. Fitz looked pensively into his long tumbler. "Yes." "I also," said the Count. Then he seemed to remember his duties as host. "Is that cigar all right?" he asked. "I think it is the best I have ever smoked," replied Fitz quietly; and the Count smiled. The two men sat there in a long silence--each thinking his own thoughts. They were just the sort of men to do it. No other but Cipriani de Lloseta would have sat with that perfect composure, wrapt in an impenetrable Spanish silence, providing with grave dignity such a very poor evening's entertainment. And Fitz seemed quite content. He leant back, gravely smoking the good cigar. There seemed to be some point of complete sympathy between them--possibly the little sunlit island of the Mediterranean where they had both been happy.