“I suppose you’re quite a man now, ready to do something useful.”
“I believe so,” answered Quentin.
“I am glad—I am very glad to see you so changed.”
At this point an elderly man entered the office. He was tall and thin, with a drooping grey moustache. He bowed low by way of a greeting, but Quentin’s mother, nodding toward her son, said:
“Don’t you know him, Palomares?”
“Whom, Doña Fuensanta?”
“This boy. It’s Quentin.”
“Quentin!” the old man fairly shouted. “So it is! My boy, how you have grown! You’re a regular giant! Well, well! How do you like the English? They’re a bad race, aren’t they? They’ve done me many a bad turn! When did the boy come, Doña Fuensanta?”
“This very minute.”
“Well—” said Quentin’s father to Palomares.