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Updated: July 14, 2025
The suave indolence of manner seems to vanish, the courtly indifference, the sloth and contemplativeness which stand as a bar between our northern nature and the peninsular habit. De Lloseta was a fine horseman even in Spain, the nation of finest horsemen in the world; also he was on Majorcan soil again.
Eve looked up in surprise, and Captain Bontnor's blue eyes wandered from her face to the dark and courteous countenance of Cipriani de Lloseta. "Perhaps," continued the Spaniard imperturbably, "you have not yet made up your mind on the subject." "But the Casa d'Erraha does not belong to me," said Eve, and Captain Bontnor wagged his head in confirmation.
Then you would be content to work for a sufficient income without ever being known to the world?" "Yes, provided that the work was genuine and not given to me out of mere charity." The editor of the Commentator looked at her gravely. He had suddenly remembered Cipriani de Lloseta. "Oh, you are proud!" he said. Eve laughed with a negative shake of the head.
Before long they heard the doctors go away, but they heeded not. They only forgot each other when Cipriani de Lloseta came into the room. The Spaniard's quick eyes read something in Eve's face. He looked sharply at Fitz, but he said nothing of what he saw. "So our dear lady has been taken from us," he said quietly, with an upward jerk of the head. Fitz nodded.
Among his friends it is known that Cipriani de Lloseta lived alone because he was faithful to the memory of one who, but for the hand of God, would have lived with him until she was an old woman, filling, perhaps, the great gloomy house in the Calle de la Paz with the prattle of children's voices, with the clatter of childish feet in the marble passages.
In the Street of the Peace there is a house, on the left hand also, into the door of which one could not only drive a coach and four, but eke a load of straw. Moreover, the driver could go to sleep and leave it to the horses, for there is plenty of space. This is the Casa Lloseta, the town residence since time immemorial of the family of that name.
The Casa d'Erraha has not changed in any way nothing changes in the Balearics. The same soft Southern odours creep up from the valley to battle with the strong resinous scent of the pines that crown the mountains. Eve had been a year in D'Erraha the whole of her married life. The Count de Lloseta placed the house at their disposal for the honeymoon.
"Why did you not tell me that you were going to Spain?" she asked somewhat tersely, under cover of her own chords. "Had I known that it would interest you " murmured De Lloseta, tightening his bow. There was a singular gleam in his eye. The gleam that one sees in the eye of a dog which has been thrashed, telling the wise that one day the dog will turn.
His calm grey eyes met the quick glance, and did not fall nor waver. "Then you will not tell me?" "No. But why are you so anxious to know?" The Count smoked for a few seconds in silence. "I will tell you," he said suddenly, "in confidence." Craik nodded, and settled himself again in his chair. He was a very fidgety man. "It is not the first article that I care about," explained De Lloseta.
De Lloseta called the cab with a jerk of his head. Before stepping into it he looked keenly into his companion's face. "Yes, a good deal. I read somewhere, lately, that it is never wise to accept favours from a woman; she will always have more than her money's worth. Good-night." And he drove away. Ce qu'on dit a l'etre a qui on dit tout n'est pas la moitie de ce qu'on lui cache.
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