“Weeks or months, rather; you don’t know what you are letting yourself in for,” warned J.
“The longer the better. Concepcion is sometimes busy with the children, housekeeping, or millinery. I never have anything to do.”
Concepcion welcomed us with soft eyes, a gracious flurry of civilities, glanced at her watch, and looked meaningly at Pemberton.
“Yes,” he said, “it’s time to start. The
OUR LADY OF O., SEVILLE.
ceremony of Rending the White Veil, the first act of the drama, begins at ten o’clock.”
It was the Wednesday of Holy Week. We had timed our arrival in Seville with an eye to that service. Had it not been for Concepcion, we might have missed it, after all. It was wonderful enough to sit in the patio with the paired Moorish columns, the green and blue azulejos, listening to the fountain, and the green love-birds in their gilded cage, looking at Concepcion, her little feet tucked under her chair, her fan gently agitated, her mantilla almost as black as her curls.