“Thanks very much!”
“You must not thank me. I only want one thing, and that is that you come to see me now and then. Some day I’ll explain our relationship and what I expect of you.”
“Very well.”
Quentin took the money and left the house joyfully. It was night, and he thought that the pawn shop on the Plaza de la Almagra might be closed, but he went by to make sure, and found it still open. He took the jewelcase and went home.
“The truth is, I’m a lucky man,” he murmured gleefully.
Quentin slept peacefully, rocked by sweet expectations. The next afternoon he went to the Calle del Sol.
He found the gate open, and passed on into the garden. The gardener was not there. He went upstairs and rang the bell. The tall, dried-up servant who came to the door, said:
“The young ladies are in the kitchen.”
“Well, let’s go there.”
They went through a series of corridors and entered the kitchen. It was an enormous place, with a high skylight through which at that moment there filtered a ray of sunlight that fell upon the blond, somewhat mussed-up hair of Rafaela.