Sarrion once said to his son in the reflective quiet of their life at
Torre Garda.

"It takes two to clash," replied Marcos at length in his contemplative
way, having given the matter his consideration. And perhaps that was the
only explanation of it.

Sarrion looked up now and met the smile with a grave bow. They took off
their hats to each other with rather more ceremony than when they had
last met. A long, slow friendship is the best; a long, slow enmity the
deadliest.

"One does not expect to see you in Saragossa," said Mon gently. A man
bears his school mark all through life. This layman had learnt something
in the seminary which he had never forgotten.

"No," replied the other. "What is this house? I was just going into it."

Mon turned and looked up at the building with a little wave of the hand,
indicating lightly the stones and mortar.

"It is just a house, my friend, as you see--a house, like another."

"And who lives in it?"

"Poor people, and foolish people. As in any other. People one must pity
and cannot help despising."

He laughed, and as he spoke he led the way, as it were, unconsciously
away from this house which was like another.