yself; they are merely to serve as preface for certain observations
upon the women whom the traveller in the evening sees hurrying through
the Sierpes on their way home.

Human beauty is the most arbitrary of things, and the Englishman,
accustomed to the classic type of his own countrywomen, will at first
perhaps be somewhat disappointed with the excellence of Spain. It
consists but seldom in any regularity of feature, for their appeal is to
the amorist rather than to the sculptor in marble. Their red lips carry
suggestions of burning kisses, so that his heart must be hard indeed who
does not feel some flutterings at their aspect. The teeth are small,
very white, regular. Face and body, indeed, are but the expression of a
passionate nature.

But when I write of Spanish women I think of you, Rosarito; I find
suddenly that it is no impersonal creature that fills my mind, but
you--you! When I state solemnly that their greatest beauty lies in their
hair and eyes, it is of you I think; it is your dark eyes that were
lustrous, soft as velvet, caressing sometimes, and sometimes sparkling
with fiery glances. (Alas! that I can find but hackneyed phrases to
describe those heart-disturbers!) And when I say that the eyebrows of a
Spanish woman are not often so delicately pencilled as with many an
English girl, I remember that yours were thick; and the luxuriance gave
you a certain tropical and savage charm. And your hair was plentiful and
curling, intensely black; I believe it was your greatest care in life.
Don't you remember how often you explained to me that nothing was so
harmful as to brush it, and how proud you were that it hung in glorious
locks to your very knees?

Hardly any girl in Seville is too poor to have a _peinadora_ to do her
hair; and these women go from house to house, combing and arranging the
coiffure for such infinitesimal sums as half a _real_, which is little
more than a penny.

Again I try to be impersonal. The complexion ranges through every
quality from dark olive to pearly white; but yours, Rosarito, was like
the very finest ivory, a perfect miracle of delicacy and brilliance; and
the blood in the cheeks shone through with a rich, soft red. I used to
think it was a colour by itself, not to be found on palettes, the
carnation of your cheeks, Rosarito. And none could walk with such
graceful dignity as you; it was a pleasure to watch your perfect ease,
your self-command. Your feet, I think, were somewha