The word tertulia simply means a circle or group in society; but it has come to signify a species of “At Home” much more informal than anything we have in the way of evening entertainment.  The tertulia of a particular lady means the group of friends who are in the habit of frequenting her drawing-room.  The Salon del Prado is the general meeting-place of all who feel more inclined for al fresco entertainment than for close rooms, and the different groups of friends meeting there draw their chairs together in small circles, and thus hold their tertulia.  The old Countess of Montijo was so much given to open-handed hospitality, and it was so easy for any English person to obtain an introduction to her tertulia, that her daughter, the Empress Eugenie, used to call it the Prado cubierto—­“only the Prado with a roof on.”  It is not customary for anything but the very lightest of refreshments to be offered at the ordinary tertulia, and this is one of its great charms, for little or no expense is incurred, and those who are not rich can still welcome their friends as often as they like without any of the terrific preparations for the entertainment which make it a burden and a bore, and without a rueful glance at the weekly bill afterwards.  Occasionally, chocolate is handed round, and any amount of tumblers of cold water.  The chocolate is served in small coffee-cups, and is of the consistency of oatmeal porridge; but it is delicious all the same, very light and well frothed up.  It is “eaten” by dipping little finger-rusks or sponge-chips into the mixture, and you are extremely glad of the glass of cold water after it.  This is, however, rather an exception; lemonade, azucarillas and water, or tea served in a separate room about twelve o’clock, is more usual.  The azucarilla is a confection not unlike “Edinburgh rock,” but more porous and of the nature of a meringue.  You stir the water with it, when it instantly dissolves, flavouring the water with vanilla, lemon, or orange, as well as sugar.  Sometimes you are offered meringues, which you eat first, and then drink the water.

I have a very perfect recollection of my first tertulia in Madrid, when I was a very young girl.  We had been asked to go quite early, as we were the strangers of the evening.  Between seventy and eighty guests dropped in, the ladies chiefly in morning dress, as we understand the word.  A Spanish lady never rises to receive a gentleman; but when any ladies entered the large drawing-room where we were all seated, every one rose and stood while the new arrivals made the circuit of the room, shaking hands with their friends or kissing them on both cheeks, and giving a somewhat undignified little nod to those whom they did not know.  The first time every one rose I thought we were going to sing a hymn, or take part in some ceremony; but as it had to be repeated each time a lady entered the room, I began to wish they