It was a comfort to sit with Dolores' little hand in mine. My other clasped the precious packet in my trousers pocket.
At last we drove into a great avenue filled with the most luxuriant tropical vegetation, very carefully tended, for there were men at work everywhere.
The escort wheeled away into line as we swept under a great glass-roofed portiere, and came to a halt at a fine flight of marble steps, where Sir Rupert left us and drove away with the soldiers clattering around him.
Yes, the home of my Dolores was like a modern palace.
Overcome with seeing it again, I think she forgot even me for the moment. She ran gaily up the steps, trilling with laughter.
"Where is father?" she cried.
That gentleman answered her question in person.
At the head of the steps appeared an old man dressed in black with an abundance of perfectly white hair which surrounded a very good-humoured, wrinkled face, almost as brown as a berry. It was the face of an aristocrat, but of an aristocrat who lived in the open air, and a good deal under the burning sun of an Aquazilian summer.
He came forward with a very loving smile on his old face and took his little daughter in his arms.
Their greeting was in Spanish and therefore most of it was lost to me, but I took it to be a very affectionate one. This over, the conversation turned in my direction and broke into English.