ONE afternoon a few days later, Quentin knocked at the Countess’ door.
“May I come in?”
“Come!”
Quentin opened the door and entered. The room was large, whitewashed, with a very small window divided into four panes, the floor paved with red bricks, and blue rafters in the ceiling. Everything was as clean as silver; in the centre was a table covered with white oil-cloth, upon which was a glass bottle converted by the Countess into a flower stand full of wild flowers.
“My lady,” announced Quentin, “I came to find out if you wanted anything in Cordova.”
“Are you going there?”
“Yes, my lady. If you are bored, we’ll take you in the carriage whenever you wish.”
“No, I’m not bored. To the contrary.”
“Then, why don’t you stay here?”
“No, I cannot.—When do you go?”