white tops of
the Sierra Nevada.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

[Illustration]

This has been a most splendid day! We have been on Spanish soil--I
suppose I may call it Spanish soil though it is held by Britain--have
seen fair Spanish women, had sun, wind, rain, wet decks, and dry decks,
and the bustle and interest of dropping anchor in Port, with all the
movement of tugs and boats and people going and coming to and from
shore--the roadstead blustery and fluttering with flags, and everything
afloat bobbing and moving, excepting the great grey men-of-war.

We got away in the first shore boat. How it rained--G.'s hat ruined--but
anything to be in Spain once more. The launch rolls and umbrellas drip,
and we have hundreds of yards along splashing wet pier, G. balancing on
timbers and wire cables to keep a little out of the mud--one umbrella
for the two. Then a jog up the town in a funny little victoria with
yellow oiled canvas curtains, past little gardens with great red flowers
on one tree, and trumpet-shaped white flowers hanging on the next, past
soldiers in khaki, and turbaned Moors huddled in their draperies. The
Moors look so out of place in Europe; they seem to have aimed at being
picturesque and have failed, and know it and stick to it. The Spaniards
you pass are pure joy to the artist; the women have such nice ivory
colouring with the faintest tint of pink, and such eyes, brown and dark,
and kind, and such eye-lashes--it's easy colour to paint too in Henner's
way, Prussian blue, bitumen and ochre and a breath of rose! Look at the
bloom on their hair, blue as the light on raven's wing, and the flour on
their faces, hanging thick on their black eyebrows. I think they must
have a little of the Indian in them. There's a far-away kinship in the
expression of the Ayahs on board and the Spaniards on shore, a queer
penetrating look, and kindly. The mens' expressions are also pleasant
enough, I think--very quiet--but they have your eye and your measure
before you realise, with a glance quick as the glint that a pointer
gives you from the corner of his eye as he ranges past.... Here is a
jotting of one of the natives, perhaps a little heavy in expression, but
fairly typical Spanish face. She is my cousin's cook; he is an R. E. and
lives in quite a big house for Gibraltar; you can stand upright in any
room and stretch yourself in the drawing-room, which has a balcony; I
painted her