“I should have wished to see your father,” he said, “amidst these surroundings.”
Eve gave a little nod. From long association with men she had learnt a manlike reticence. She moved a little towards the open archway leading through to the terrace.
“We have some tea,” she said, “waiting for you. Will you come to the terrace?”
He followed her, while the servant led the tired horse away.
They sat at the northern end of the terrace, where the garden-chairs always stood, and before, beneath, all around them rose and fell the finest of all the fine Majorcan scenery--scenery which only Sardinia can rival in Europe.
Eve poured out his tea, which he drank, and set the cup aside.
They all knew that the time had come for the Count de Lloseta to tell his story--to redeem the promise made to Eve and Fitz long ago, before they were married.
Cipriani de Lloseta leant back in his deep garden-chair nursing one booted leg over the other. He was dusty and travel-stained, but the natural hardiness of his frame seemed to be more apparent than ever in his native land, on his native mountains.
“My poor little tale,” he said; “you will have it?”
“Yes,” said Eve; and Fitz nodded.