Our visitor was very interested in the house, for he confided in us that there was a housing shortage in Jijona, like that in the rest of the world. He was chief of the municipal officers, dust-cart, water-supply, electric light and so on. He had just come from Toledo, and the only place he could find in Jijona was not nearly large enough for his family.
"This would just suit me," he said, peering into room after room, "seven rooms; and they say that St. Sebastian used to live here. Did you know that?"
His eye was attracted by the guitar of El Señor, which we had brought with us.
"And you an afficionado of the guitar," he exclaimed. "I, too, have played in my time."
We pressed him to play.
"No, no; indeed I would like to, but I may not. You see, my wife's father died a week ago, and it would seem very wicked if I were to play, or to sing."
Jan played him a farouka which he had learned from Blas.
"It seems a good guitar," said the man.
He picked it up, and fingered the chords. Then he went to the door and peered round it to see if Père Chicot had gone home.
"I might sing you something if you won't tell any one," said the chief of the municipal officers. "But I will sing it in a very low voice, so that it will be less disrespectful to my wife's father."