Kirk felt the room begin to revolve slowly.
"My friend does not possess a card at the moment, eh?" continued the
Professor.
The little, rotund man bowed, his hand-polished, mahogany features widening in a smile.
"'Sveree hot wedder!" he exclaimed.
"He begs one thousand pardons for not speaking of your language the more perfectly, and so he is request of me to be his interpreter."
Something urged Kirk to flee while there was yet time, but the father of Maria Torres was between him and the door, and he could not bring himself to push the little man out of the way. So he bade them both be seated in the only two chairs which the room contained, while he rested gingerly upon the edge of the bed. The new-comers let their eyes roll curiously about the chamber, and an embarrassing silence descended. Senor Torres maintained a set smile designed to be agreeable; Professor Herara, serene in the possession of his linguistic acquirements, displayed the insouciance of an undertaker. Together they beamed benignantly, almost patronizingly, upon the young man. Plainly they meant to put him at his ease—but they failed. At length, after clearing his throat impressively, the interpreter began again:
"Of course, you have been expecting this visit, senor?"
"N—not exactly."
"My friend is deeply disappointed that he has not the honor of before meeting you."
"I am flattered, but—"