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opened it.
‘Daddy, mummy says, do stop talking and come and eat
your dinner.’
‘This is my third daughter,’ said Athelny, pointing to her
with a dramatic forefinger. ‘She is called Maria del Pilar, but
she answers more willingly to the name of Jane. Jane, your
nose wants blowing.’
‘I haven’t got a hanky, daddy.’
‘Tut, tut, child,’ he answered, as he produced a vast, bril-
liant bandanna, ‘what do you suppose the Almighty gave
you fingers for?’
They went upstairs, and Philip was taken into a room
with walls panelled in dark oak. In the middle was a nar-
row table of teak on trestle legs, with two supporting bars
of iron, of the kind called in Spain mesa de hieraje. They
were to dine there, for two places were laid, and there were
two large arm-chairs, with broad flat arms of oak and leath-
ern backs, and leathern seats. They were severe, elegant, and
uncomfortable. The only other piece of furniture was a bar-
gueno, elaborately ornamented with gilt iron-work, on a
stand of ecclesiastical design roughly but very finely carved.
There stood on this two or three lustre plates, much bro-
ken but rich in colour; and on the walls were old masters of
the Spanish school in beautiful though dilapidated frames:
though gruesome in subject, ruined by age and bad treat-
ment, and second-rate in their conception, they had a glow
of passion. There was nothing in the room of any value, but
the effect was lovely. It was magnificent and yet austere.
Philip felt that it offered the very spirit of old Spain. Athelny