Few carriages were passing now; above the old wall and gateway of Almodóvar, the yellowish tower of the cathedral showed against the azure sky, which was now beginning to be decorated with stars.
All of the carriages left the Victoria to drive up and down the Paseo del Gran Capitán.
Quentin entered a café.
“I must get out of this city,” he thought. “I ought to go to London.”
Then he remembered the frequent rain, the wooden coachmen in their cabs, the blue mist in the fields near Windsor, and the ships that glided down the Thames in the fog.
He left the café. The carriages continued to pass up and down El Gran Capitán, enveloped in an atmosphere of dust.
Quentin went home. María Lucena was getting ready to go to the theatre.
“What’s the matter with you?” she said.
“Nothing.”
Quentin stretched out upon a sofa and spent hour after hour recalling the fog, the dampness, and the cool atmosphere of England, until he fell asleep.