“Oh!” he answered unconsciously. “I went to D’Erraha mostly. I used to sail across from Ciudadela to Soller--along the coast, you know.”
“And from Soller?”
“From Soller I rode by the Valdemosa road, and then across the mountain and through that narrow valley up to the Val d’Erraha.”
The Count was smoking thoughtfully.
“And you were happy there?” he said.
Fitz looked pensively into his long tumbler.
“Yes.”
“I also,” said the Count. Then he seemed to remember his duties as host. “Is that cigar all right?” he asked.
“I think it is the best I have ever smoked,” replied Fitz quietly; and the Count smiled.
The two men sat there in a long silence--each thinking his own thoughts. They were just the sort of men to do it. No other but Cipriani de Lloseta would have sat with that perfect composure, wrapt in an impenetrable Spanish silence, providing with grave dignity such a very poor evening’s entertainment. And Fitz seemed quite content. He leant back, gravely smoking the good cigar. There seemed to be some point of complete sympathy between them--possibly the little sunlit island of the Mediterranean where they had both been happy.