and sat in the sun, leaning against a pillar. It was
her dress that struck me first of all, for it was rich and brightly
coloured, and shone out in that dusty courtyard with something of the
same relief as the flowers of the pomegranates. At a second look it was
her beauty of person that took hold of me. As she sat back--watching me,
I thought, though with invisible eyes--and wearing at the same time an
expression of almost imbecile good-humour and contentment, she showed a
perfectness of feature and a quiet nobility of attitude that were beyond
a statue's. I took off my hat to her in passing, and her face puckered
with suspicion as swiftly and lightly as a pool ruffles in the breeze;
but she paid no heed to my courtesy. I went forth on my customary walk a
trifle daunted, her idol-like impassivity haunting me; and when I
returned, although she was still in much the same posture, I was half
surprised to see that she had moved as far as the next pillar, following
the sunshine. This time, however, she addressed me with some trivial
salutation, civilly enough conceived, and uttered in the same
deep-chested, and yet indistinct and lisping tones, that had already
baffled the utmost niceness of my hearing from her son. I answered
rather at a venture; for not only did I fail to take her meaning with
precision, but the sudden disclosure of her eyes disturbed me. They were
unusually large, the iris golden like Felipe's, but the pupil at that
moment so distended that they seemed almost black; and what affected me
was not so much their size as (what was perhaps its consequence) the
singular insignificance of their regard. A look more blankly stupid I
have never met. My eyes dropped before it even as I spoke, and I went on
my way upstairs to my own room, at once baffled and embarrassed. Yet
when I came there and saw the face of the portrait, I was again reminded
of the miracle of family descent. My hostess was, indeed, both older and
fuller in person; her eyes were of a different colour; her face,
besides, was not only free from the ill-significance that offended and
attracted me in the painting; it was devoid of either good or bad--a
moral blank expressing literally naught. And yet there was a likeness,
not so much speaking as immanent, not so much in any particular feature
as upon the whole. It should seem, I thought, as if when the master set
his signature to that grave canvas, he had not only caught the image of
one smiling and fa