This was Spain.  A small group of men had already invaded the garage and gathered about Hillyard and the proprietor.  They proceeded at once to take a hand in the conversation and offer their advice.  They suggested the expedition to Miramar, to Alcudia, to Manacor, discussing the time each journey would take, the money to be saved by the shorter course, the dust, and even the gradients of the road.  They had no interest in the business in the garage, and they were not at all concerned in the success of Hillyard’s excursion.  That a stranger should carry away with him pleasant recollections of the beauties of Mallorca, was a matter of supreme indifference to them all.  But they were engaged in the favourite pursuit of the Spaniards of the towns.  They were getting through a certain small portion of the day, without doing any work, and without spending any money.  The majority favoured the road past Valdemosa, over the Pass of Soller to Miramar and its rocky coast on the north-east side of the island, as indeed Hillyard knew the majority must.  For there is no road like it for beauty in the Balearics, and few in all Spain.

“I will go that way, then,” said Hillyard, and he strolled off to his luncheon.

He drove afterwards over the plain, between groves of olive and almond trees with gnarled stems and branches white with dust, mounted by the twisting road, terraces upon his left and pine-clothed mountainside upon his right, past Valdemosa to the Pass.  The great sweep of rock-bound coast and glittering sea burst upon his view, and the boom of water surging into innumerable caves was like thunder to his ears.  At a little gate upon the road the car was stopped at a word from Hillyard.

“I am going in here,” he said.  “I may be a little while.”

The chauffeur looked at Hillyard with surprise.  Hillyard had never been to the house before, but he could not mistake it from the description which he had been given.  He passed through an orchard to the door of an outrageous villa, built in the style of a Swiss chalet and glaring with yellow paint.  A man in his shirt-sleeves came to the door.

“Senor Jose Medina?” Hillyard inquired.

He held out his card and was ushered into the room of ceremony which went very well with the exterior of the yellow chalet.  A waxed floor, heavy white lace curtains at the windows, a table of walnut-wood, chairs without comfort, but with gold legs, all was new and never to be used and hideous.  Hillyard looked around him with a nod of comprehension.  This is what its proprietor would wish for.  With a hundred old houses to select from for a model—­no!  This is the way his fancies would run.  The one beauty of the place, its position, was Nature’s.  Hillyard went to the window, which was on the side of the house opposite to the door.  He looked down a steep terraced garden of orange trees and bright flowers to the foam sparkling on the rocks a thousand feet below.