s greyness, the slate roofs are shining with the wet. Now
and again people pass: a woman of the slums in a dirty apron, her head
wrapped in a grey shawl; two girls in waterproofs, trim and alert
notwithstanding the inclement weather, one with a music-case under her
arm. A train arrives at an underground station and a score of city folk
cross my window, sheltered behind their umbrellas; and two or three
groups of workmen, silently, smoking short pipes: they walk with a dull,
heavy tramp, with the gait of strong men who are very tired. Still the
rain pours down unceasing.

And I think of Andalusia. My mind is suddenly ablaze with its sunshine,
with its opulent colour, luminous and soft; I think of the cities, the
white cities bathed in light; of the desolate wastes of sand, with their
dwarf palms, the broom in flower. And in my ears I hear the twang of the
guitar, the rhythmical clapping of hands and the castanets, as two girls
dance in the sunlight on a holiday. I see the crowds going to the
bull-fight, intensely living, many-coloured. And a thousand scents are
wafted across my memory; I remember the cloudless nights, the silence of
sleeping towns, and the silence of desert country; I remember old
whitewashed taverns, and the perfumed wines of Malaga, of Jerez, and of
Manzanilla. (The rain pours down without stay in oblique long lines, the
light is quickly failing, the street is sad and very cheerless.) I feel
on my shoulder the touch of dainty hands, of little hands with tapering
fingers, and on my mouth the kisses of red lips, and I hear a joyous
laugh. I remember the voice that bade me farewell that last night in
Seville, and the gleam of dark eyes and dark hair at the foot of the
stairs, as I looked back from the gate. '_Feliz viage, mi Inglesito._'

It was not love I felt for you, Rosarito; I wish it had been; but now
far away, in the rain, I fancy, (oh no, not that I am at last in love,)
but perhaps that I am just faintly enamoured--of your recollection.

* * *

But these are all Spanish things, and more than half one's impressions
of Andalusia are connected with the Moors. Not only did they make
exquisite buildings, they moulded a whole people to their likeness; the
Andalusian character is rich with Oriental traits; the houses, the mode
of life, the very atmosphere is Moorish rather than Christian; to this
day the peasant at his plough sings the same quavering lament that sang
the Moor. And it is to the invader