“Good land alive! Where?”
“Spain.”
“Are you going chasing after Lily again?”
“No, we’re going off on our own.”
“Well, I may have started on the gad late in life, but I’ve certainly started now,” said Mrs. Gainsborough. “Spain? That’s where the Spanish flies come from, isn’t it? Well, they ought to be lively enough, so I suppose we shall enjoy ourselves. And how do we get there?”
“By train!”
“Dear land! it’s wonderful what they can do nowadays. What relation then is Spain to Portugal exactly? You must excuse my ignorance, Sylvia, but really I’m still all of a fluster. Fancy being bounced out of me bed into Spain. You really are a demon. Fancy you getting yellow fever. You haven’t changed color much. Spain! Upon my word I never heard anything like it. We’d better take plenty with us to eat. I knew it reminded me of something. The Spanish Armada! I once heard a clergyman recite the Spanish Armada, though what it was all about I’ve completely forgotten. There was some fighting in it though. I went with the captain. Well, if he could see me now. You may be sure he’s laughing, wherever he is. The idea of me going to Spain.”
The idea materialized; that night they drove to the Gare d’Orléans.
CHAPTER XII
THE journey to Madrid was for Mrs. Gainsborough a long revelation of human eccentricity.