But it appeared that I had not reflected sufficiently on all the consequences of that step.  First of all the sight of the Villa looking shabbily cheerful in the sunshine (but not containing her any longer) was so perturbing that I very nearly went away from the gate.  Then when I got in after much hesitation—­being admitted by the man in the green baize apron who recognized me—­the thought of entering that room, out of which she was gone as completely as if she had been dead, gave me such an emotion that I had to steady myself against the table till the faintness was past.  Yet I was irritated as at a treason when the man in the baize apron instead of letting me into the Pompeiian dining-room crossed the hall to another door not at all in the Pompeiian style (more Louis XV rather—­that Villa was like a Salade Russe of styles) and introduced me into a big, light room full of very modern furniture.  The portrait en pied of an officer in a sky-blue uniform hung on the end wall.  The officer had a small head, a black beard cut square, a robust body, and leaned with gauntleted hands on the simple hilt of a straight sword.  That striking picture dominated a massive mahogany desk, and, in front of this desk, a very roomy, tall-backed armchair of dark green velvet.  I thought I had been announced into an empty room till glancing along the extremely loud carpet I detected a pair of feet under the armchair.

I advanced towards it and discovered a little man, who had made no sound or movement till I came into his view, sunk deep in the green velvet.  He altered his position slowly and rested his hollow, black, quietly burning eyes on my face in prolonged scrutiny.  I detected something comminatory in his yellow, emaciated countenance, but I believe now he was simply startled by my youth.  I bowed profoundly.  He extended a meagre little hand.

“Take a chair, Don Jorge.”

He was very small, frail, and thin, but his voice was not languid, though he spoke hardly above his breath.  Such was the envelope and the voice of the fanatical soul belonging to the Grand-master of Ceremonies and Captain General of the Bodyguard at the Headquarters of the Legitimist Court, now detached on a special mission.  He was all fidelity, inflexibility, and sombre conviction, but like some great saints he had very little body to keep all these merits in.

“You are very young,” he remarked, to begin with.  “The matters on which I desired to converse with you are very grave.”

“I was under the impression that your Excellency wished to see me at once.  But if your Excellency prefers it I will return in, say, seven years’ time when I may perhaps be old enough to talk about grave matters.”

He didn’t stir hand or foot and not even the quiver of an eyelid proved that he had heard my shockingly unbecoming retort.

“You have been recommended to us by a noble and loyal lady, in whom His Majesty—­whom God preserve—­reposes an entire confidence.  God will reward her as she deserves and you, too, Senor, according to the disposition you bring to this great work which has the blessing (here he crossed himself) of our Holy Mother the Church.”