“That is certainly pretty much how we picture Germans to ourselves in Spain.”

It was his turn to be surprised.  “You a Spaniard?”

“And how had you pictured a Spanish lady?  Of course with jet black eyes and hair, and a mantilla?”

Wilhelm nodded.

“There are fair Spaniards, however, as you see.  In fact, it is very common in our best families—­an inheritance perhaps from our Gothic ancestors.”

“I suppose, like all Latins, you despise the Germans?”

“I beg, monsieur, that you will not class me with the mass.  I wish to be regarded as an individual.  Whatever the prejudices of the Latins may be, I have my own opinion.  Your nationality in a matter of indifference to me.  I only consider the man,” and she gave him a look that sent the blood flaming to his cheek.

The hotel meals were always announced by a bell which could be heard quite well on the shore.  In the heat of their conversation, however, they did not notice the signal.  A lady’s maid whom Wilhelm had often seen at the hotel—­a middle-aged, female dragoon with a mustache and a very stiff and dignified deportment—­now came up to the lady and said: 

“Madame la Comtesse did not hear the dinner bell?”

She rose and took Wilhelm’s arm without further ado.  The maid followed with the rug and the camp stool.  The beach was quite deserted, everybody having gone to dinner.  The tide was rising, and had nearly covered the strip of beach.  The thunder of the waves, mingled with the rattle of the pebbles which they sucked after them as they receded, followed the couple as they slowly made their way back to the hotel.

On the road home they passed the post office.  The maid, whose gentle name of Anne hardly matched her martial appearance, had hurried on in front to fetch her mistress’ letters and newspapers.  She handed them to the lady, who smilingly tore off the wrapper from her Figaro and gave it to Wilhelm, saying:  “You do not know my name yet?” Wilhelm read, on the slip of paper:  “Madame la Comtesse Pilar de Pozaldez—­nee de Henares.”  “My father,” she added in explanation, “was Major-General Marquis de Henares.”

“And here is my very plebeian name,” returned Wilhelm, pulling out his card and handing it to her.

“There are no such things as plebeian names—­only plebeian hearts,” said the countess, as she glanced at the card, and then put it away in her own elegant tortoise-shell case, which bore her monogram and crest in gold and colored enamel.

The acquaintance was now fully established, and after dinner the countess invited Wilhelm, in the most natural manner possible, to accompany her on a walk into the country.