"Hola, Don Juan!" he called at sight of me. "You come in good season. Be seated on the saddle-chair It will save your new coat-tails a creasing. I will not rise. A touch of the gout, as you see,—the first in months."
"Too much port," I suggested, swinging astride the narrow chair of carved mahogany. "Better take to sour claret for a while."
"Nada! not while I can bear the pain. I might pass for an English squire—I cannot forego the port."
"I will write you a prescription that will ease the pain. Nothing will cure you but abstinence."
He drew a wry face between his smiles. "Then I fear my case is hopeless. I am far from being a true Spaniard.—Chita, a glass for Señor Robinson."
The woman fetched and filled a glass while I drew my chair up to the marble-topped table-desk and scribbled a prescription. Father Rocus signed her to go out, and turned to me, still smiling, but with a sharpened glance.
"So you have already followed my advice and come to mass," he said.
"Your Reverence has a keen eye," I replied. "It seemed to me I kept close behind my pillar."
"Men are not numerous at early mass. Brawny, six-foot caballeros in European dress are not seen every week. Lastly, this one has blonde hair. A glimpse was enough and to spare. You talked with her?"
"She has sent me to you."