"At the same time he has a very good grip of the material
conditions 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.