SEVENAT least once in my life, Fate saved me from what surely would have been a disastrous mistake.
It moved in the person of a white-haired, white-bearded Spanish savant, staying in Bath because the hot springs benefited his gout. I was moved by his esthetic face when I saw him at a garden party, and thrilled when he beckoned me to his seat. He was a pale, blue-eyed Asturian holding a chair in French Literature at the University of Madrid, and when he got around to telling me his name, I found out it was Don Garcia Jacinto Ramon de Montero y Vicensa, but I could call him Señor Professor. Although enchanted with my appearance, he looked a little bored with my mother’s claim to a noble Spanish ancestor.
He was the most fascinating conversationalist I had ever imagined, and at our first pa
