“Don Fulano, these are my friends; they are very anxious to see the chateau. Surely we may come in?” Engracia entreated.
Don Fulano, a grave Castilian, regretted, evaded, apologized, finally confessed. All ordinary rules should be set aside for Engracia, but he himself had received orders from His Majesty that no one should be admitted to the grounds. The work of putting the chateau in order for the bride had begun.
Engracia sparkled with excitement at the news. In that case, of course, we would not dream of asking; how natural, how charming of Don Alfonzo!
As we could not see the house, Don Fulano took us to a neighboring casino where, he said, the royal guests would go for tea. Here we wandered in the garden; Engracia picked a spray of orange blossoms, tucked it in her belt; then, like a fairy godmother, witched us away in her motor to the shooting lodge, where we found her serious husband and her five-year-old son. The shooting box stood on a piece of high cleared ground surrounded by a thick wood; it seemed delightfully sylvan and remote from feverish Madrid.
“We come here three days a week,” Engracia said when we were seated at luncheon. “Whenever the pace gets too rapid in town, I fly out here for a rest.”
Her husband laughed. “For a change of activities,” he said. “Engracia is a good shot, these are her trophies.”
The antlers of a stag hung over the fireplace, the floor was spread with skins. Engracia, pouring tea at the head of the table, nodded towards a shelf laden with silver cups.
“There are his trophies,” she laughed. “I have not yet won a prize.”
“You shot the birds we are eating,” said the husband. “Isn’t that more important?”
After lunch the people who knew how to shoot went off with guns and left me in the lodge with a bright fire crackling in the chimney and Engracia’s little son for company.