Catalina had finished her coffee. She leaned her chin on her hands and gazed at him reflectively. “I should think you could get one,” she said, quite impersonally. “If you weren’t such a practical soul you’d be almost romantic looking, and you’re quite the ideal soldier, besides being a guardsman and well-born. I think if you came to Santa Barbara I could find you a rich girl. Quantities come there for the winter, and they are always delighted to be asked to a ranch.” “All women are match-makers,” he said, testily. “A poor fellow I left out in South Africa got off just one epigram in his life—‘There are two kinds of women, living women and dead women.’ I believe he was right. Shall we go and see if they will let us into the archbishop’s palace?” X “Quien quiere agua? Quien quiere agua?” The shrill cries of the water-carriers smote upon grateful ears as the dusty, sun-baked train paused at Fuente, a little station on the zigzag between Valencia and Albacete. They were young, misshapen girls, the hip that supported the gourd at least three inches higher than the other, with a corresponding elevation of shoulder. All along the train, hands were waving encouragingly, accompanied by cries of “Aqui! Aqui!” and the glasses were rapidly filled and emptied. But few ran over to the _cantina_ where the wine of the country was sold; and the amount of water that is dispensed at every station in Spain should encourage those whose war-cry is temperance and who are prone to believe that the southern races are lost. But water is precious in Spain, and must be paid for. At every station old women are waiting with buckets to catch the discharge from the engine—not, it is to be hoped, for traffic. Even the Moultons, who had exhausted Captain Over’s aluminum bottle and had prejudices against uncertified water, passed out their own cups and drank thirstily. No one was in his best temper. Valencia is a dirty, noisy, ill-mannered city, and after two sleepless nights they had been forced to rise early or remain another day. Moreover, the handsome peasant had followed them with a melodious persistence that was causing Mr. Moulton serious uneasiness. It was impossible to appeal to the Guardia Civile, for the man did nothing that was not within his rights; for the matter of that the stranger in Spain is practically without rights. The man—his name, it was now known, was Jesus Maria—a name common enough in a land without humor—never even offered them the usual courtesies of travel. Nevertheless, he managed to make his presence felt in a hundred ways independently of his voice and guitar, as well as the subtle intimation that for the stern frown on Mr. Moulton’s brow he cared nothing.