"At your service."
"Well, we've been waiting for you. Take a seat; you'll have coffee with us."
The man took a seat. His appearance was decidedly comical,—a blend of humility, bragodoccio and sad arrogance. He gazed at the place that Roberto had just abandoned, in which remained a scrap of roast meat.
"Pardon me," he said to Roberto. "You're not intending to finish that scrap? No? Then…. with your permission—" and he took the plate, the knife and the fork.
"I'll order another beefsteak for you," said Roberto.
"No, no. It's one of my whims. I imagine that this meat must be good.
Would you kindly let me have a slice of bread?" he added, turning to
Manuel. "Thanks, young man. Many thanks."
The man bolted the meat and bread in a trice.
"What? Is there a little wine left?" he asked, smiling.
"Yes," replied Manuel, emptying the bottle into the man's glass.
"All right," answered the man in ill-pronounced English as he gulped it down. "Gentlemen! At your service. I believe you wished to ask me something."