“At El Buen Amigo—the same place where I'm living.”
“All right. We'll not discuss business any more, because we have finished with the business in hand—at least I have, Billy. When you get back to your hostelry, you might tell my friend I shall expect him over to dine with me this evening, if he can manage it.”
For an hour they discussed various subjects; then Billy, declaring the siesta was almost over and the shops reopening as a consequence, announced his intention of doing his shopping, said good-bye to Dolores and Webster, and lugubriously departed on the business in hand.
“Why are you in such a hurry, Mr. Webster?” Dolores demanded. “You haven't been in Buenaventura six hours until you've managed to make me perfectly miserable.”
“I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean to.”
“Didn't you know Billy Geary is my personal property?”
“No, but I suspected he might be. Bill's generous that way. He never hesitates to give himself to a charming woman.”
“This was a case of mutual self-defense. Billy hasn't any standing socially, you know. I believe he has been seen shooting craps—isn't that what you call it?—with gentlemen of more or less colour; then he appeared in public with me, minus a chaperon—”
“Fooey!”
“Likewise fiddlesticks! I should have had the entrée to the society of my father's old friends but for that; when old Mrs. General Maldonado lectured me (the dear, aristocratic soul conceived it to be her duty) on the impropriety of appearing on the Male-con with Billy and my guardian, who happens to be Billy's landlady, I tried to explain our American brand of democracy, but failed. So I haven't been invited anywhere since, and life would have been very dull without Billy. He has been a dear—and you have taken him away.”