"I suppose you are waiting for dinner now?" she said.
"Yes," he answered. "Shall we look for a seat here? A fellow who sings rather well sometimes comes in."
He led her to a bench near the marble basin under the broad leaves of a palm. Evelyn noticed that the spot was sufficiently public to offer no hint of privacy, and she admired his tact. It got dark while they engaged in casual talk, and colored servants lighted lamps among the plants and flowers. Then the soft tinkle of a guitar and a clear voice, trilling on the higher notes with the Spanish tremolo, came out of the shadow. One or two others joined in, and Evelyn listened with enjoyment.
"The Campanadas," Grahame said. "It's a favorite of mine. The refrain states that grapes eaten in pleasant company taste like honey."
"Isn't that a free translation? I'm not a Spanish scholar, but I imagine it means something more personal than company in general."
"Yes," said Grahame slowly. "It really means—with you."
The music changed to a plaintive strain, which had something seductive and passionate in its melancholy.
"Las aves marinas," said Evelyn. "That means the sea-birds, doesn't it? What is the rest?"
"I won't paraphrase this time. The song declares that although the sea-birds fly far across the waves they cannot escape the pains of love. These people are a sentimental lot, but the idea's poetical."
"I wonder whether it's true," Evelyn said with a smile. "Perhaps you ought to know."