John Stuart Webster's eyes and mouth flew wide open. “What the devil!” he tried to roar. “You haven't been speaking to her, have you? If you have, I'll never forgive you, because you've spoiled my little surprise party.”
“No, I haven't been speaking to her, but she's in the next room crying fit to break her heart because she thinks you've been killed.”
“You scoundrel! Aren't you human? Go tell her it's only a couple of punctures, not a blowout.” He sighed. “Isn't it sweet of her to weep over an old hunks like me!” he added softly. “Bless her tender heart!”
“Who is she?” Ricardo was very curious.
“That's none of your business. You wait and I'll tell you. She's the guest I told you I was going to bring to dinner, and that's enough for you to know for the present. Vaya, you idiot, and bring her in here, so I can assure her my head is bloody but unbowed. Doctor, throw that rug over my shanks and make me look pretty. I'm going to receive company.”
His glance, bent steadily on the door, had in it some of the alert, bright wistfulness frequently to be observed in the eyes of a terrier standing expectantly before a rat-hole. The instant the door opened and Dolores's tear-stained face appeared, he called to her with the old-time camaraderie, for he had erased from his mind, for the nonce, the memory of the tragedy of poor Don Juan Cafetéro and was concerned solely with the task of banishing the tears from those brown eyes and bringing the joy of life back to that sweet face.
“Hello, Seeress,” he called weakly. “Little Johnny's been fighting again, and the bad boys gave him an all-fired walloping.”
There was a swift rustle of skirts, and she was bending over him, her hot little palms clasping eagerly his pale, rough cheeks. “Oh, my dear, my dear!” she whispered, and then her voice choked with the happy tears and she was sobbing on his wounded shoulder. Ricardo stooped to draw her away, but John Stuart bent upon him a look of such frightfulness that he drew back abashed. After all, the past twenty-four hours had been quite exciting, and Ricardo reflected that John's inamorata was tired and frightened and probably hadn't eaten anything all day long, so there was ample excuse for her hysteria.
“Come, come, buck up,” Webster soothed her, and helped himself to a long whiff of her fragrant hair. “Old man Webster had one leg in the grave, but they've pulled it out again.”
Still she sobbed.