The whole place is endearingly homelike and so genuinely hospitable that
we almost sat down to luncheon in the kitchen with the young Spanish
king who had lunched with the Marquis there a few weeks before. There
was a veranda outside where we could linger till the rain held up, and
look into the garden where the flowers ought to have been
forget-me-nots, but were as usual mostly marigolds and zinnias. They
crowded round tile-edged pools, and other flowers bloomed in pots on the
coping of the garden-seats built up of thin tiles carved on their edges
to an inward curve. It is strongly believed that there are several
stories under the house, and the Marquis is going some day to dig them
up or out to the last one where the original Jewish owner of the house
is supposed to have hid his treasure. In the mean time we could look
across the low wall that belted the garden in, to a vacant ground a
little way off where some boys were playing with a wagon they had made.
They had made it out of an oblong box, with wheels so rudely and
imperfectly rounded, that they wabbled fearfully and at times gave way
under the body; just as they did with the wagons that the boys I knew
seventy years ago used to make.
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