le manners, especially after the artificial and invariable
politeness of the Frenchmen she had met while travelling, but at least
he promised to be useful. She picked herself up off the floor and
began to consider the disposal of her garments. Three or four wooden
pegs, the only accommodation to be seen, were obviously not sufficient
to hold all her clothes.

Presently there was an interlude, provided by the advent of the
landlady. Her dishevelment accorded well with the general look of the
house; her slippers clicked on the carpetless boards at every shuffling
step, and she carried a half-cold, slopped-over cup of coffee. To
Arithelli's relief the woman was mistress of a limited amount of French
patois, and in answer to a demand for a wardrobe of some kind, said she
would send up her son. He was a carpenter and would doubtless arrange
something. She gave a curious glance at the girl's witch-like beauty,
a mixture of suspicion and barely-admitted pity in her thoughts.

As to Emile's share in the drama she had naturally formed conclusions.
After a respectable interval her son arrived, and having delivered
himself of a remark in Spanish and being answered in French, proceeded
to hammer a row of enormous nails into the wall at regular intervals.
Arithelli sat upon her trunk, which she considered cleaner than the
chairs, and watched the process, her green eyes assuming a curious
veiled expression, a hank of copper-tinted hair falling upon her
shoulders.

There was something uncanny in her capacity for keeping still, and she
had none of the usual and natural fidgetiness of a young girl. In
whatever position of sitting or standing she found herself she was
capable of remaining for an indefinite period.

When the carpenter's manipulations had ceased she hung up her dresses
carefully, put the rest of her things back into the trunk, as being the
safest place, and sitting down again began to cry in a low, painful
way, utterly unlike the light April shower emotion of the ordinary
woman.

Here she was in Barcelona, and the fulfilled desire seemed likely to
become already Dead Sea fruit. Supposing she got ill, or failed to
satisfy the audience. She would see her name to-morrow when she went
out in large letters on the posters of the Hippodrome:

"_Arithelli, the beautiful English equestrienne_," and underneath some
appalling picture of herself in columbine skirts, or jockey's silk
jacket and cap and top boots.

She