The stir and rattle of early morning brushed away this unhappy impression. Came a tap at his door, and the griffe girl brought in his coffee. She still wore her air of suppressed but joyous excitement, and presently volunteered the whispered information that the señora had not as yet returned from early mass.
"She is usually back by this time." She nodded.
"Wonder what's keeping her," said Strawbridge, as naturally as he could.
"I do wonder," echoed the maid, turning, with her silver urn in her hand, to look through the window.
The drummer felt an impulse to talk to the girl about his coming adventure. It was clear that she knew all about it, but he decided regretfully not to. It would be imprudent. The maid stood close to the window now, looking at an angle into the plaza. Suddenly she began jiggling up and down.
"Oh, there she is! I see her black gown coming through the shrubs!"
Strawbridge knew that he ought to remain sipping his coffee, but he jumped up and strode over to the girl's side. The two stood with their heads almost together, getting glimpses of the black gown through the shrubbery. The little maid unconsciously caught and squeezed Strawbridge's arm.
"Oh, isn't she the sweetest, dearest señora! Oh señor, isn't she lovely and beautiful and just too sweet!" The little servant was caught up in a paroxysm of a woman's love for lovers. She might have been Strawbridge himself glowing over his sweetheart; or perhaps it is truer to say that she was glowing toward him through the vicarious love of her mistress. In the midst of it her spirits suddenly fell.
"Cá!" she pouted. "It's Father Benicio!"
Her disappointment was so intense that the drummer laughed. He patted her rubbery shoulder.