“No,” he replied.
“She uses ‘thou’ to everybody,” explained Rafaela.
They left the music-room, and in the next room, they showed Quentin various mirrors with bevelled edges, a glass cabinet full of miniatures with carved frames and antique necklaces, two escritoires inlaid with mother-of-pearl, bright-coloured majolica ware, and pier-glasses with thick plates.
“It is my mother’s room,” said Rafaela; “we’ve kept it exactly as it was when she was alive.”
“Did she die very long ago?”
“Six years ago.”
“Come on,” said Remedios, seizing him by the hand, and looking into her sister’s face with her great, restless eyes.
The three descended the stairs and traversed the gallery that connected the vestibule with the garden. On either side of them were an infinite number of rooms; some large and dark, with wardrobes and furniture pushed against the walls; others were small, with steps leading up to them. At the end of the gallery were the stables, extremely large, with barred windows. They entered.
“Now you’ll see what kind of a horse we have here,” said Rafaela. “Pajarito! Pajarito!” she called, and a little donkey which was eating hay in a corner came running up.
In the same stable was an enormous coach, painted yellow, very ornate, with several very small windows, and the family coat-of-arms on the doors.