the house in which Mr. Daguilar lived. It opened from the corner of
a narrow, unfrequented street--a corner like an elbow--and, as seen
from the exterior, there was nothing prepossessing to recommend it;
but the outer door led by a short hall or passage to an inner door or
grille, made of open ornamental iron-work, and through that we
entered a court, or patio, as they I called it. Nothing could be
more lovely or deliciously cool than was this small court. The
building on each side was covered by trellis-work; and beautiful
creepers, vines, and parasite flowers, now in the full magnificence
of the early summer, grew up and clustered round the windows. Every
inch of wall was covered, so that none of the glaring whitewash
wounded the eye. In the four corners of the patio were four large
orange-trees, covered with fruit. I would not say a word in special
praise of these, remembering that childish promise she had made on my
behalf. In the middle of the court there was a fountain, and round
about on the marble floor there were chairs, and here and there a
small table, as though the space were really a portion of the house.
It was here that we used to take our cup of coffee and smoke our
cigarettes, I and old Mr. Daguilar, while Maria sat by, not only
approving, but occasionally rolling for me the thin paper round the
fragrant weed with her taper fingers. Beyond the patio was an open
passage or gallery, filled also with flowers in pots; and then,
beyond this, one entered the drawing-room of the house. It was by no
means a princely palace or mansion, fit for the owner of untold
wealth. The rooms were not over large nor very numerous; but the
most had been made of a small space, and everything had been done to
relieve the heat of an almost tropical sun.

"It is pretty, is it not?" she said, as she took me through it.