Page 86 - nostromo-a-tale-of-the-seaboard

fat coachman sat muffled up on the edge, holding lazily the
ends of halters in his hand. Barefooted servants passed to
and fro, issuing from dark, low doorways below; two laun-
dry girls with baskets of washed linen; the baker with the
tray of bread made for the day; Leonarda—her own cameri-
sta—bearing high up, swung from her hand raised above
her raven black head, a bunch of starched under-skirts daz-
zlingly white in the slant of sunshine. Then the old porter
would hobble in, sweeping the flagstones, and the house
was ready for the day. All the lofty rooms on three sides of
the quadrangle opened into each other and into the corre-
dor, with its wrought-iron railings and a border of flowers,
whence, like the lady of the mediaeval castle, she could wit-
ness from above all the departures and arrivals of the Casa,
to which the sonorous arched gateway lent an air of stately
importance.
She had watched her carriage roll away with the three
guests from the north. She smiled. Their three arms went
up simultaneously to their three hats. Captain Mitchell, the
fourth, in attendance, had already begun a pompous dis-
course. Then she lingered. She lingered, approaching her
face to the clusters of flowers here and there as if to give
time to her thoughts to catch up with her slow footsteps
along the straight vista of the corredor.
A fringed Indian hammock from Aroa, gay with co-
loured featherwork, had been swung judiciously in a corner
that caught the early sun; for the mornings are cool in Sula-
co. The cluster of flor de noche buena blazed in great masses
before the open glass doors of the reception rooms. A big