“Are you a Spaniard?” inquired the Frenchman.
“Yes, sir.”
“I would have taken you for an Englishman.”
“I have just left England, where I spent eight years.”
“Are you from Andalusia?”
“From Cordova.”
The Frenchman and his wife, who had awakened, studied Quentin. Surely his looks were not Spanish. Tall, stout, and clean-shaven, with a good complexion and brown hair, enveloped in a grey overcoat, and with a cap on his head; he looked like a young Englishman sent by his parents to tour the continent. He had a strong nose, thick lips, and the expression of a dignified and serious young man which a roguish, mischievous, and gipsy-like smile completely unmasked.
“My wife and I are going to Cordova,” remarked the Frenchman as he pocketed his magazine.
Quentin bowed.
“It must be a most interesting city—is it not?”