At this point his mother said to him one day:
“We are going to a certain house. Kindly answer politely anything they may ask you there.”
Quentin said nothing, but accompanied his mother to a palace on the Calle del Sol. They climbed some marble stairs, and entered a hall where a white-haired old man was sitting in a large, deep armchair, with a blond little girl who looked like an angel to Quentin, by his side.
“So this is the little scamp?” inquired the little old man with a smile.
“Sí, Señor Marqués,” replied Quentin’s mother.
“And what do you wish to do, my boy?” the Marquis asked him.
“I!—Get out of here as soon as I possibly can,” replied Quentin in a dull voice.
“But, why?”
“Because I hate this town.”
The little girl must have looked at him in horror; at least he supposed she did.