uncertainty about living. With her roots torn up by her father's passing, she had appealed to Philip for help, and he was evidently not the man to fail her, for the present at least.
"I'll follow you upstairs in a minute, Sisa," Felicity said as the stout old woman she had first met came to the drawing-room door in response to Philip's ring. "May I come and say goodnight?"
"Yes, please come," Sisa said solemnly. "I shall not be asleep."
Felicity felt that she had to speak to Philip alone. There was so much that she had to clear up in her mind, and she believed that it could be done best by the direct approach. It was how Philip himself would handle a similar situation, and she expected him to be frank.
"Mr. Arnold," she began as soon as Sisa and Carlota had left the room, "there are a good many things that puzzle me about San Lozaro. I feel that they would have been cleared up by now if my uncle had not died so tragically as soon as I got here, and I think that you might be able to help me to make a few adjustments."
She paused, waiting for his reply, hoping that he would help her over what was, for her, at least, a difficult moment. She did not want to probe into his affairs, but she had to know something about her uncle's family and it seemed that he was quite closely connected with it.
He did not answer her at once, pouring another cup of coffee for himself before he strode with it to the window overlooking the terraces and the district plantations.
"What is it you want to know?" he asked.
He was not going to be particularly helpful, she realized. He would answer her questions and no more.
Once again anger stirred in her, the anger of frustration and uncertainty, but she knew that it would be useless to voice it. Philip Arnold was not the type of man to be browbeaten into a revelation he had no desire to make.
"It—would be helpful if I had some definite idea just what my uncle expected me to do," she confessed. "He said he had work for me. That was how he put it in his
letters, and I admit that I found it easier to accept his invitation under these conditions."
She saw him smile.
"An admirable sentiment," he acknowledged. "Independence is one of the few virtues I appreciate, and your question is quite easy to answer. Your uncle wanted you to preserve the English atmosphere in his home so that it would not become entirely Spanish, at least for Sisa's sake."
"And Conchita and Julio?" she asked.
"Julio has become a law unto himself," he admitted, frowning. "His father hoped that he would be able one day to take on the responsibility of the estate where he laid it down, but Julio, I'm afraid, is running true to type."
"You mean," she frowned, "that he is wholly Spanish?"
"Not entirely. Julio has Guanche blood."
"Can you tell me what that means, please? I'm afraid I am very ignorant of your island's history."
"As far as Julio is concerned, it means complete irresponsibility," he explained. "The Guanches were the original inhabitants of these islands, Miss Stanmore. They were a sturdy peasant race, and they fought bravely for their liberty, but since the Conquest they have been more and more thrust into the background of the island's living until they have agreed to take second place. You will see the true types among the cave-dwellers in the troglodyte villages, but there has been gradual intermarriage between certain types of Spanish settlers and these people, and so we have Julio."
"A—throwback?"
"So far, I'm afraid, as character is concerned."
"He is very young." She felt that she had to defend Julio.
"That may be our one hope for the future."
" 'Our,' Mr. Arnold?" she repeated. "Then you have a definite interest in San Lozaro?"
He put his coffee cup back on the table between them and stood looking down at it for several seconds before he answered the direct question.
"A personal interest," he agreed, "as well as the interest I expect to have vested in me when your uncle's will becomes
"I'll follow you upstairs in a minute, Sisa," Felicity said as the stout old woman she had first met came to the drawing-room door in response to Philip's ring. "May I come and say goodnight?"
"Yes, please come," Sisa said solemnly. "I shall not be asleep."
Felicity felt that she had to speak to Philip alone. There was so much that she had to clear up in her mind, and she believed that it could be done best by the direct approach. It was how Philip himself would handle a similar situation, and she expected him to be frank.
"Mr. Arnold," she began as soon as Sisa and Carlota had left the room, "there are a good many things that puzzle me about San Lozaro. I feel that they would have been cleared up by now if my uncle had not died so tragically as soon as I got here, and I think that you might be able to help me to make a few adjustments."
She paused, waiting for his reply, hoping that he would help her over what was, for her, at least, a difficult moment. She did not want to probe into his affairs, but she had to know something about her uncle's family and it seemed that he was quite closely connected with it.
He did not answer her at once, pouring another cup of coffee for himself before he strode with it to the window overlooking the terraces and the district plantations.
"What is it you want to know?" he asked.
He was not going to be particularly helpful, she realized. He would answer her questions and no more.
Once again anger stirred in her, the anger of frustration and uncertainty, but she knew that it would be useless to voice it. Philip Arnold was not the type of man to be browbeaten into a revelation he had no desire to make.
"It—would be helpful if I had some definite idea just what my uncle expected me to do," she confessed. "He said he had work for me. That was how he put it in his
letters, and I admit that I found it easier to accept his invitation under these conditions."
She saw him smile.
"An admirable sentiment," he acknowledged. "Independence is one of the few virtues I appreciate, and your question is quite easy to answer. Your uncle wanted you to preserve the English atmosphere in his home so that it would not become entirely Spanish, at least for Sisa's sake."
"And Conchita and Julio?" she asked.
"Julio has become a law unto himself," he admitted, frowning. "His father hoped that he would be able one day to take on the responsibility of the estate where he laid it down, but Julio, I'm afraid, is running true to type."
"You mean," she frowned, "that he is wholly Spanish?"
"Not entirely. Julio has Guanche blood."
"Can you tell me what that means, please? I'm afraid I am very ignorant of your island's history."
"As far as Julio is concerned, it means complete irresponsibility," he explained. "The Guanches were the original inhabitants of these islands, Miss Stanmore. They were a sturdy peasant race, and they fought bravely for their liberty, but since the Conquest they have been more and more thrust into the background of the island's living until they have agreed to take second place. You will see the true types among the cave-dwellers in the troglodyte villages, but there has been gradual intermarriage between certain types of Spanish settlers and these people, and so we have Julio."
"A—throwback?"
"So far, I'm afraid, as character is concerned."
"He is very young." She felt that she had to defend Julio.
"That may be our one hope for the future."
" 'Our,' Mr. Arnold?" she repeated. "Then you have a definite interest in San Lozaro?"
He put his coffee cup back on the table between them and stood looking down at it for several seconds before he answered the direct question.
"A personal interest," he agreed, "as well as the interest I expect to have vested in me when your uncle's will becomes
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