_The Monk_ (spreading out his hands): "They are hot, but nevertheless they keep out the sun."
We come out of the town into the gardens. There are flat fields of cultivation spotted with mulberry trees, the trunks of which seem vivid purple in the afternoon light.
I make a remark in Spanish. (Jan was still at the stage of appreciative listener).
_The Clerkly Man_: "Señora, your Spanish is good for a stranger--you can pronounce the Spanish J, which is difficult for foreigners."
_I_: "I have learned that from speaking German; it is rather like the German _ch_."
A discussion on idioms at once begins. The Spaniard, though he speaks foreign languages badly, has an inextinguishable interest in the subject of tongues. If ever you are bored in Spanish company start an argument about languages. After the discussion has been going on for some while the pale Señor says:
"Nevertheless it is sad that the Catalans wish to root Castilian out of their country."
_Luis_ (with some heat): "Well! why should they not? They are the hardest working and the most valuable people of Spain. Why should not they do as they like? Why should everybody not do as he likes if he hurts nobody else?"
_The pale Señor_ (with frigidity): "But that is Bolshevism."
_Luis_ (with increasing heat): "If that is Bolshevism then I do not mind being a Bolshevik."
Conversation is at an impasse. The carriage flings us to and fro for a while.
A motor-car passes us. The dust which is about six inches deep on the road is whirled up in a cloud so thick that we have to halt for a few minutes to allow it to settle, or we might have driven into the deep water-channels which edge each side of the road.
_Luis_ (to the Clerkly Man): "My friends want to live for a while out in the mountains. Do you by any chance know of a house?"
_The Clerkly Man_: "I am living with my family in the monastery of Fuen Santa. There is a guest house there and habitations are to let. I will find out all about them if you wish."
_The pale little Señor_ (who has apparently forgotten all about Bolshevism): "There are one or two houses in my village of Verdolay. The proprietor is a friend of mine. I will inquire for you about it."
In front of a solitary house is a small wooden frame on which a few strips of dusty meat are hung. The driver buys some of this from the woman who comes out of the house.