And I don’t care a bit if my boots don’t fit,
For I walk just as well without.”
He stopped in front of one of the toy houses, and shouted “Oh, Señor Doctor.”
The door, which stood open, was at once filled by the figure of a man in crash clothes. He was middle-aged and wore spectacles, so powerful that the eyes appeared to glare upon you with unspeakable ferocity, until, seeing round them or over, you found the expression friendly in the extreme.
“Ah, ha, Don Luis,” he said, “I did not know you were a singer.”
“And a poet, my dear Doctor,” returned the other, bowing. “My own words. Could you hear them across the savannah?”
“I could have heard them over the frontier. Will you come in?”
“No, gracias,” he answered. “I only stopped in to ask you to a party this evening, Doctor, for the lovely Rosita. It became necessary to do something to cut out that handsome young dog of a native. Will you come?”
The doctor gave a sound indicative of hesitation.
“What kind of a party?” he asked cautiously.