There was a manuscript to be delivered to Sobrenski, an article
of Jean Grave's from _Les Temps Nouveaux_ which she had copied for
reproduction.
She finished dressing her hair, and pushed the window more widely open,
for the sound of music in the distance had caught her ear.
Though it was now autumn, and in England there would have been mist and
gloom and fogs, here the sun shone, and the air was sweet and mild.
The parching, exhausting heat of the summer was gone, and everything
smelt fresh and clean, without any touch of winter cold.
Down below in the Calle Catriona the music swelled louder and higher
till her attic room was filled with the dancing notes.
Along the pavement two men walked slowly with guitar and flageolet.
They walked turning in opposite directions, their heads thrown back,
their feet keeping step, two black-haired, supple vagabonds of gypsy
breed, who had come down to the city from their mountain home on the
heights of Montserrat.
The guitar twanged merrily, the reed-like notes of the flute were true
and clear as the song of a thrush.
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