“Thank you, I’ll remember it,” and getting away from the two gentlemen who seem to be greatly delighted at the arrival of their ship and are inclined to be effusive in their hospitality, Chester in the course of a few minutes’ stroll up Wool street, finds himself before the painted pole of the barber surgeon.
The night is dark, there is no lamp in the hall, and he is not recognized by the little blood-letter, who lets him in. So going up the three flights of stairs, he finds with unexpected joy that Antony Oliver opens the door in answer to his knock.
To his further delight Guy is himself unrecognized even by the painter’s sharp eyes. Antony has been working at his altar piece. The setting sun comes in upon and halos the glorious face and divine eyes of Hermoine de Alva. With lover’s rapture the Englishman strides toward the canvas. To Oliver’s quick and anxious remark: “What is your business?” he answers nothing, being rapt in contemplation of his sweetheart!
“Your business, señor?”
“Oh—ah! yes! Have you had any pigeon pie lately?” whispers Chester, waking up.
“Morbleu!” ejaculates the Flemish artist. “Captain—no Major Guido Amati!”
“Not this trip,” says the other shortly, closing the door, “but one Andrea Blanco, captain of the Spanish galleon Esperanza, with hides, tallow and Spanish wine, consigned to Jacobszoon & Olins, and discharging her cargo at the English quay.”
“But still, my Guido,” whispers the painter, and the impulsive Franco-Fleming throws his arms round Guy’s neck and imprints two tender kisses, one on each cheek.
“Is your infernal boy here?” mutters the Englishman savagely, who does not care for this kind of salute.
“Oh, I’ve dismissed Achille for the day. He is down stairs with his family,” says Oliver. “But what brings you here? Mademoiselle Hermoine?” [[138]]