that
surround, as it were, the situation."

"What do you mean? That Dona Rita" (the name came strangely familiar to
my tongue) "is rich, that she has a fortune of her own?"

"Yes, a fortune," said Mills. "But it was Allegre's fortune before. . .
And then there is Blunt's fortune: he lives by his sword. And there is
the fortune of his mother, I assure you a perfectly charming, clever, and
most aristocratic old lady, with the most distinguished connections. I
really mean it. She doesn't live by her sword. She . . . she lives by
her wits. I have a notion that those two dislike each other heartily at
times. . . Here we are."

The victoria stopped in the side alley, bordered by the low walls of
private grounds. We got out before a wrought-iron gateway which stood
half open and walked up a circular drive to the door of a large villa of
a neglected appearance. The mistral howled in the sunshine, shaking the
bare bushes quite furiously. And everything was bright and hard, the air
was hard, the light was hard, the ground under our feet was hard.

The door at which Mills rang came open almost at once. The maid who
opened it was short, dark, and slightly pockmarked. For the rest, an
obvious "_femme-de-chambre_," and very busy. She said quickly, "Madame
has just returned from her ride," and went up the stairs leaving us to
shut the front door ourselves.

The staircase had a crimson carpet. Mr. Blunt appeared from somewhere in
the hall. He was in riding breeches and a black coat with ample square
skirts. This get-up suited him but it also changed him extremely by
doing away with the effect of flexible slimness he produced in his
evening clothes. He looked to me not at all himself but rather like a
brother of the man who had been talking to us the night before. He
carried about him a delicate perfume of scented soap. He gave us a flash
of his white teeth and said:

"It's a perfect nuisance. We have just dismounted. I will have to lunch
as I am. A lifelong habit of beginning her day on horseback. She
pretends she is unwell unless she does. I daresay, when one thinks there
has been hardly a day for five or six years that she didn't begin with a
ride. That's the reason she is always rushing away from Paris where she
can't go out in the morning alone. Here, of course, it's different. And
as I, too, am a stranger here I can go out with her. Not that I
particularly care to do it."

These last words were