On the mountain-top, as the white penants of mist floated among the trees, they left tenuous filaments like those silver threads woven among the thorn bushes by lemures.
Quentin was gazing tirelessly upon the scene, when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned and saw a little girl of ten or twelve years, with her hair down her back.
“Good-afternoon,” said the child with a marked Andalusian accent, as she came up to him.
Quentin removed his hat respectfully, and the child smiled.
“Have you rung?” she asked.
“No.”
She rang the bell, and a large, over-grown servant girl opened the door and asked Quentin what he wanted.
“Give the Señor Marqués my card,” he said, “and tell him that I have come to pay him my respects.”
“Come in, Señor.”
Quentin entered. He rather wished that the Marquis would not care to receive him, hoping in this way to avoid making a tiresome call, but his wish was not granted, for in a short time, the over-grown servant girl asked him to kindly follow her.