Austin looked up and laughed. "He's coming."
Wolf crossed the flags, and when he stopped by the bougainvillea his face was red. He was fat and his thin, black alpaca jacket looked very tight.
"Sun's fierce. Will you take a drink?" said Jefferson, and clapping his hands for a servant, ordered Cerveza.
As a rule, in hot countries, cautious white men do not drink much beer, but Wolf drained his glass of pale yellow liquor with obvious satisfaction.
"The Glasgow stuff is good," he said. "In fact, for British lager, it's very nearly right."
"Where d'you reckon to get it exactly right? Chicago or Munich?" Jefferson inquired.
Wolf laughed. "It's good at both cities. At Munich there's a garten. But I'm not going to bore you by talking about lager."
Betty's typewriter stopped. The light in the patio was strong and to sit in her dark office and study the group outside was like watching a play on an illuminated stage. The curtains at the arch narrowed her view, and the figures of the actors, sharply distinct, occupied the opening. Betty's sense of the dramatic was keen, and she had remarked that Wolf sat down where a beam shone over his shoulder. Then when Jefferson talked about Chicago and Munich she thought he tried to study Wolf's face, but could not. Wolf had hesitated for a moment before he admitted that he knew the cities. Betty rested her face in her hand and resolved to watch. For one thing, Wolf was Kit's employer.
"Trade is slack," Wolf resumed. "The Spanish merchants see they can't ship much produce and are cutting their orders. I don't know if you feel the slump, but my African speculation promises well. The trouble is, I can't finance it properly, and if you would like to come in——"
"Pancho Brown is old-fashioned and not keen about new undertakings," Austin replied cautiously. "Do you expect to get larger lots of sheep?"