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It is possible that she, being a woman, understood. "Finally they came to stay a few days you know the Spanish hospitality. She forced it on us against our will. I was particularly averse to it because of Rosa. I wanted to be quietly at Lloseta. We intended to live almost entirely in Majorca. We wanted our children to be Majorcans, and especially a son.
From the heights above a subtle invigorating odour of marjoram, rosemary, lavender, growing wild like heather, comes down to mingle with the more languid breath of tropic plant and flower. Such is Lloseta a home to live for, to die for, to dream of when away from it. As a man is dreaming of it now, just across that hundred miles of smooth sea, on the end of the Muelle de Ponente at Barcelona,
The Count de Lloseta bowed as he made this remark, and looked at his companion with a smile. At times Mrs. Harrington gave way to a momentary panic in respect to Cipriani de Lloseta when she was not feeling very well, perhaps. Her situation seemed to be somewhat that of a commander holding an impregnable position against a cunning foe.
If the count chose to live in his own cellar, his neighbours would shrug their shoulders and throw the end of their capes well over to the back. That was surely the business of the count. Moreover, Cipriani de Lloseta was not the sort of man of whom it is easy to ask questions. His was the pride of pride, which is a vice unbreakable.
Eve paused on the threshold in astonishment at the sight of the Count de Lloseta and her uncle in grave discourse over a glass of sherry. "You!" she said. "You here!" And he wondered why she suddenly lost colour. "I," he answered, "I here to pay my respects." Eve gave a little gasp of relief. For a moment she was off her guard with a dangerous man watching her.
His first instinct was to go and open the door; then he remembered that the new-comer was a nobleman who lived in a palace, and that he himself was indirectly a gentleman, inasmuch as he lived in the same house as a lady his niece. So he sat still and allowed the landlady to open the door. When Cipriani de Lloseta was ushered into the tiny room he found the captain half-bowing on the hearthrug.
No one happened to be looking at her except Cipriani de Lloseta, and he saw that not only had she written the celebrated articles, but that she loved Fitz. Fitz's opinion was the only one worth hearing. In her anxiety to hear it, she quite forgot to guard her secret. "Yes," answered Fitz, wondering what De Lloseta was leading up to. "I have read them both, of course. I hope there are more.
It would not be truthful to say that she came on tiptoe, her build not warranting that mode of progression. Agatha watched her without surprise. Mrs. Ingham-Baker always moved like that in her dressing-gown. Like many ladies, she put on stealth with that garment. "How beautifully the Count plays!" said the mother. "Beautifully!" answered Agatha. And neither was thinking of Cipriani de Lloseta.
Cipriani de Lloseta, with a quiet deliberation which was sometimes almost dramatic, stooped over the paper basket and recovered the crumpled slip of paper. He did not unfold it, but held it out, crushed up in his closed fist. "Miss Eve Challoner," he said. John Craik nodded. De Lloseta laughed and threw the paper into the fire. "I must not be seen. Where do you propose to put me?"
Moreover, a connection is sometimes a point of divergence. In human affairs it is more often so than otherwise. True, a generation lay between these two men, but it was not that that tied their tongues. It was partially the fact that Cipriani de Lloseta had moved with the times had learnt, perhaps, too well, to acquire that reserve which is daily becoming more noticeable among men.
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