"Con mucho gusto," the Ambassador said, holding Hall's hand and bowing slightly from the waist.
"I'm glad to meet you, sir," Hall said.
"Father, Mr. Hall is an American. He is Matthew Hall, the writer. You know. Matthew Hall." The childish, well-bred-daughter smile on Margaret Skidmore's face could not conceal the acid contempt in her voice. "Mr. Hall is an American, from New York."
"Oh, yes, oh, yes, indeed. Hall. Of course, Mr. Hall. Been in San Hermano long, Mr. Hall?"
"No, sir. Less than a week."
"Fine place, Mr. Hall. Fine people. Have you met Smitty yet? Dear, have you seen Smitty? I think he and Mr.—Mr. Hall could find much in common, Margaret."
"Tomorrow," Margaret Skidmore said, and the Ambassador helped himself to a cup of punch.
"Amigo Mateo!"
Without turning around, Hall said, in Spanish, "Only one man in all the world has a scratchy voice like that," and then he turned around and embraced Felipe Duarte.
"What brings you to San Hermano?" he asked Duarte.