alship.

‘Come,’ said he, ‘let us look for Estella.’

He led the way along a path winding among almond and peach trees in full bloom, in the shadow of the weird eucalyptus and the feathery pepper tree.  Then with a little word of pleasure he hurried forward.  Conyngham caught sight of a black dress and a black mantilla, of fair golden hair, and a fan upraised against the rays of the sun.

‘Estella, here is a guest: Mr. Conyngham, one of the brave Englishmen who remember Spain in her time of trouble.’

Conyngham bowed with a greater ceremony than we observe to-day, and stood upright to look upon that which was for him from that moment the fairest face in the world.  As, to some men, success or failure seems to come early and in one bound, so, for some, Love lies long in ambush, to shoot at length a single and certain shaft.  Conyngham looked at Estella Vincente, his gay blue eyes meeting her dark glance with a frankness which was characteristic, and knew from that instant that his world held no other woman.  It came to him as a flash of lightning that left his former life grey and neutral, and yet he was conscious of no surprise, but rather of a feeling of having found something which he had long sought.

The girl acknowledged his salutation with a little inclination of the head and a smile which was only of the lips, for her eyes remained grave and deep.  She had all the dignity of carriage famous in Castilian women, though her figure was youthful still, and slight.  Her face was a clean-cut oval, with lips that were still and proud, and a delicately aquiline nose.

‘My daughter speaks English better than I do,’ went on the General in the garrulous voice of an exceedingly domesticated man.  ‘She has been at school in England - at the suggestion of my dear friend Watterson - with his daughters, in fact.’

‘And must have f