The superintendent shrugged his shoulders. Evidently the capital city had been a bad third.
The half hour of waiting had passed quickly, and even in the passing were we conscious that the landlady of the fonda was exerting herself on our behalf. For while we were gazing at the oxen the red-frocked eldest girl had hastened by carrying a big dish of fish.
On the marble-topped table of the dining-room was a huge black sausage, a pyramid of rolls, a decanter of red wine, siphons of soda-water, and a plate of a pickled plant that was new to us all, even to the Squire and the Lady, who had a wide experience of many countries.
We were in danger of making a meal of the sausage, when the little girl brought in a dish of the omelets that every Majorcan housewife makes to perfection.
The pickle had proved delicious, but all our little waitress could tell us was that it came from the sea. And we had almost reconciled ourselves to the idea that we were eating seaweed when the explanation (which proved to be correct) that we might be eating samphire occurred to us. In England in Shakespeare's time, and on the Continent to this day, the tender young shoots of samphire, which grows on rocks by the ocean, are gathered, sprinkled with salt, and then preserved in vinegar.
A dish of crisp fried fish followed the omelets. Then came a second dish of fish, then an abundance of very sweet mandarin oranges, freshly cut, with long stems and plenty of their green leaves.
The moment of repletion having arrived, the men lit their pipes, and for a space we lazed. But a few minutes of indolence sufficed. Calling for our hostess, we asked for the bill. She was prepared for the question, and had the amount at the tip of her tongue—eight pesetas.
Leaving our wraps in her care, we separated: the Squire and the Boy to climb the mountain called the Castle of Alaró, the Man to find a subject for his brush, and the Lady and I to prowl about and enjoy ourselves in a feminine way.
Our prowl first led through a part of the town where at the open doors women, and little boys with aprons tied about their thin waists, were busy making boots. I wonder how it is that the sight of a small boy at work always makes me sad. I think it is the thought of the immensity of the task he has to accomplish before his labour ends.
Once clear of the town, we sauntered along a path that crossed a field, and ended at a fine old mansion overlooking an orange grove. The trees were heavy with fruit, and the air was perfumed with the fragrance of the blossoms that starred the glossy foliage. A giant bougainvillea draped a complete wall with a mantle of royal purple.