As I alighted before the great handsome house on the hillside overlooking the bay, the door was thrown open by a servant in livery, who conducted me across a wide square hall, in which a fountain was playing, and ushered me into a small but luxuriously-furnished room.
Taking my card upon a salver, the man returned almost immediately, saying—
“The Señorita Doroteita will be with you in a few moments, Señor.”
Then he withdrew, and almost before I had had an opportunity of inspecting the pretty room, which was evidently a boudoir, the door again opened and Doroteita entered.
“I’m so glad you have come,” she exclaimed, with a bright smile of welcome, as she grasped both my hands. “I thought perhaps you would be compelled to go to Bayonne to-night.”
“So I am,” I said. “Nevertheless, I could not part from you without just one brief word of farewell.”
Sinking into a low wicker chair, she motioned me to a seat beside her, and told me how her brother, an army officer, who had been for four years in Cuba, had returned that afternoon, and the Countess, on account of some family matters, had resolved to accompany him to Madrid, where he was compelled to report himself on the morrow. She looked absolutely bewitching in a low-necked gown of some dove-grey clinging material, that disclosed her delicately-moulded chest and arms, while in her blue-black hair was a single crimson flower that gave the touch of colour necessary for artistic effect. It was a blossom I had never before seen, almost waxen, and similar to a camellia, but larger and of richer colour.
When we had been chatting some time, each expressing regret that the hour of parting had come, and hope that we should meet again ere long, she suddenly asked—
“Is it absolutely imperative that you should cross the frontier to-night? We go by the Sud Express at eleven-fifteen, why not remain and see us off?”
“I cannot, Doroteita,” I replied. “It is most important that I should go to Bayonne to-night—for the last time.”