“The day is hot, señor, and I accept.”
He spoke no more, but rising, led me into a courtyard paved with marble in the centre of which was a basin of water, having vines trained around it. Here were chairs and a little table placed in the shade of the vines. When he had closed the door of the patio and we were seated, he rang a silver bell that stood upon the table, and a girl, young and fair, appeared from the house, dressed in a quaint Spanish dress.
“Bring wine,” said my host.
The wine was brought, white wine of Oporto such as I had never tasted before.
“Your health, señor?” And my host stopped, his glass in his hand, and looked at me inquiringly.
“Diego d’Aila,” I answered.
“Humph,” he said. “A Spanish name, or perhaps an imitation Spanish name, for I do not know it, and I have a good head for names.”
“That is my name, to take or to leave, señor?”—And I looked at him in turn.
“Andres de Fonseca,” he replied bowing, “a physician of this city, well known enough, especially among the fair. Well, Señor Diego, I take your name, for names are nothing, and at times it is convenient to change them, which is nobody’s business except their owners”. I see that you are a stranger in this city—no need to look surprised, señor, one who is familiar with a town does not gaze and stare and ask the path of passers-by, nor does a native of Seville walk on the sunny side of the street in summer. And now, if you will not think me impertinent, I will ask you what can be the business of so healthy a young man with my rival yonder?” And he nodded towards the house of the famous physician.
“A man’s business, like his name, is his own affair, señor,” I answered, setting my host down in my mind as one of those who disgrace our art by plying openly for patients that they may capture their fees. “Still, I will tell you. I am also a physician, though not yet fully qualified, and I seek a place where I may help some doctor of repute in his daily practice, and thus gain experience and my living with it.”