_To yesterday and to-day I say my polite “vaya usted con dios.” What are these days to me?_ But that far-off day of my romance, when from between _the blue and white bales in Don Ramon’s darkened storeroom, at Kingston_, I saw the door open before the figure of _an old man with the tired, long, white face_, that day I am not likely to forget. I remember _the chilly smell of the typical West Indian store_, the indescribable _smell of damp gloom, of locos, of pimento, of olive oil, of new sugar, of new rum; the glassy double sheen of Ramon’s great spectacles, the piercing eyes in the mahogany face_, while the tap, tap, tap of a cane on the flags went on behind the inner door; _the click of the latch; the stream of light_. The door, petulantly thrust inwards, struck against some barrels. I remember the rattling of the bolts on that door, and _the tall figure_ that appeared there, _snuff-box in hand. In that land of white clothes that precise, ancient, Castilian in black was something to remember. The black cane that had made the tap, tap, tap dangled by a silken cord from the hand whose delicate blue-veined, wrinkled wrist ran back into a foam of lawn ruffles._ The other hand paused in the act of conveying a pinch of snuff to the nostrils of the _hooked nose that had, on the skin stretched tight over the bridge, the polish of old ivory; the elbow pressing the black cocked hat against the side; the legs, one bent, the other bowing a little back_--this was the attitude of Seraphina’s father. Having imperiously thrust the door of the inner room open, he remained immovable, with no intention of entering, and called in a harsh, aged voice: “Señor Ramon! Señor Ramon!” and then twice: “Seraphina--Seraphina!” turning his head back. _Then for the first time I saw Seraphina, looking over her father’s shoulder._ I remember her face of that day; _her eyes were grey--the grey of black, not of blue. For a moment they looked me straight in the face, reflectively, unconcerned, and then travelled to the spectacles of old Ramon._ This glance--remember I was young on that day--had been enough to set me wondering what they were thinking of me; what they could have seen of me. “But there he is your Señor Ramon,” she said to her father, _as if she were chiding him for a petulance in calling_; “your sight is not very good, my poor little father--there he is, your Ramon.” _The warm reflection of the light behind her, gilding the curve of her face from ear to chin, lost itself in the shadows of black lace falling from dark hair that was not quite black. She spoke as if the words clung to her lips; as if she had to put them forth delicately for fear of damaging the frail things._ * * * * * _Part One: Chapter Five._ _Macdonald cleared his throat, with a sound resembling the coughing of a defective pump, and a mere trickle of a voice_ asked: