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“What’s he like?” she went on hurriedly.

“Oh, I don’t know ... he’s a great big chap,” and then he added cryptically, “pretty Scotch, I should say.”

When dinner was over, the Doña went up to the nursery to apologise, in case the children were still awake, for not having been up before to say good-night. She found they were asleep, however, but Nanny was sitting in the day-nursery darning a jersey of Jasper’s; so, partly to avoid having had the trouble of climbing the stairs for nothing, partly because she had been seeking for some time the occasion for a private chat, she sank into the rocking-chair—looking extremely distinguished in her black lace mantilla and velvet gown.

Her brown eyes, with the quizzical droop of the lids that Teresa had inherited, fixed Nanny in a disconcerting Spanish stare.

How thankful she was that she did not have to wear a gown of black serge fastening down her chest with buttons, and a starched white cap.

“I think the children have had a happy summer,” she said.