The white house stood clearly out in its radiance.

The lattices were wide open and the parlor lighted.

They walked slowly towards it, between hedges of white camelias and scarlet japonicas.

Vanilla, patchuli, verbena, wild wandering honeysuckle--a hundred other scents--perfumed the light, warm air.

As they came near the house there was a sound of music, soft and tinkling, with a rhythmic accent as pulsating as a beating heart.
"It is Don Luis, father." "Ah! He plays well--and he looks well." They had advanced to where Don Luis was distinctly visible.