The home of the Consul was at Son Españolet, an attractive little residential suburb about a mile beyond the city walls. The busy district of Santa Catalina lies between it and the sea. Undulating groves of almond and olive separate it from the hills.
Taking the mule-drawn tram-car that plies between Palma and Porto Pi, we alighted at Santa Catalina; and, after making various inquiries, found ourselves ringing the gate-bell of the house, over whose tower fluttered the gay banner of the Consulate.
Had the Consul and his wife guessed that these three British invaders were going to trespass on their endurance for a period of six months, I doubt if they would have received us with such courteous geniality. As it was, their reception was so cordial that within half an hour of our meeting I felt emboldened to reveal what had been my secret desire—that we might rent a furnished house near Palma for the winter. Not a fine house—merely a roof under which we could stow our belongings, a centre from which our wanderings about the islands might radiate.
Could they advise us? Did they think such an idea was feasible?
The Consul shook his head.
"Not near Palma," he said. "At Porto Pi or the Terreno you might chance on one. But these are summer seaside places. Most of the houses there are shut up now. You'd find it dull and inconvenient in winter."
"This district seems delightful, and near town. Would there be a chance of our getting a house here?"
"Unfurnished, yes—furnished, no. But why not take a vacant house and hire what you need? There's only three of you. You don't want much."
"Say, Luis!" said pretty Mrs. Consul, "what about the house the Major left last week? That's empty now. Would that suit?"