‘What do you propose to do?’ asked Señora Barenna breathlessly, for she was stout and agitated and had hurried up the steps.
‘When, my dear Iñez—when?’
‘But now—with this man in Ronda. You know quite well he is dangerous. He is a Carlist. It was only the other day that you received an anonymous letter saying that your life was in danger. Of course it was from the Carlists, and Larralde has something to do with it; or that Englishman—that Señor Conyngham with the blue eyes. A man with blue eyes—bah! Of course he is not to be trusted.’
The receiver of the anonymous warning seemed to be amused.
‘A little sweeping, your statements, my dear Iñez. Is it not so? Now, a lemonade! the afternoon is warm.’
He rose and rang the bell.
‘My nerves,’ whispered the Señora to Concha. ‘My nerves—they are so easily upset.’
‘The liqueurs,’ said the General to the servant with perfect gravity.
‘You must take steps at once,’ urged Señora Barenna when they were alone again. She was endowed with a magnificent imagination without much wisdom to hold it in check, and at times persuaded herself that she was in the midst, and perhaps the leader, of a dangerous whirl of political events.
‘I will, my dear Iñez; I will. And we will take a little maraschino, to collect ourselves, eh?’