“I wish you wouldn’t interrupt me, Miralda,” he replied testily. “This gentleman will understand how difficult some English names are to pronounce and will excuse my slip, I am sure.”
“Certainly, visconte.”
“I am only sorry I do not speak English.”
“Donnington is quite easy to pronounce, Affonso,” his wife broke in.
He gave a sigh of impatience. “Of course it is, I know that well enough.”
“You were speaking of the reason for Mr. Donnington’s visit,” Miralda reminded him demurely; and as she turned to him her eyes swept impassively across my face. As if a stranger’s presence in Lisbon were a legitimate reason for the polite assumption of curiosity.
“It is in a way Government business; Mr. Donnington”—he got the name right this time and smiled—“is seeking some concessions in our East African colony and he needs my influence.”
“Oh, business in East Africa?” she repeated, with a lift of the eyebrows. “How very interesting;” and with that she turned away and handed her programme to one of the men pestering her for a dance.
No words she could have spoken and nothing she could have done would have been so eloquent of her appreciation of my conduct in absenting myself for four months and then coming to Lisbon on business. Once more I wished those infernal concessions at the bottom of the Tagus.
“I hope to be of considerable use and you may depend upon my doing my utmost,” said the visconte, self-complacently.