"Nevertheless it is sad that the Catalans wish to root Castilian out of their country."
Luis (with some heat): "Well! why should they not? They are the hardest working and the most valuable people of Spain. Why should not they do as they like? Why should everybody not do as he likes if he hurts nobody else?"
The pale Señor (with frigidity): "But that is Bolshevism."
Luis (with increasing heat): "If that is Bolshevism then I do not mind being a Bolshevik."
Conversation is at an impasse. The carriage flings us to and fro for a while.
A motor-car passes us. The dust which is about six inches deep on the road is whirled up in a cloud so thick that we have to halt for a few minutes to allow it to settle, or we might have driven into the deep water-channels which edge each side of the road.
Luis (to the Clerkly Man): "My friends want to live for a while out in the mountains. Do you by any chance know of a house?"
The Clerkly Man: "I am living with my family in the monastery of Fuen Santa. There is a guest house there and habitations are to let. I will find out all about them if you wish."
The pale little Señor (who has apparently forgotten all about Bolshevism): There are one or two houses in my village of Verdolay. The proprietor is a friend of mine. I will inquire for you about it."
The tartana stops.