“Well, so you’ve come from your dear Biscay?”
“No, Braulio, I have not come?”
“Always the same merry humour. What does it matter? I a way we have of talking in Spain.... Do you know it’s my birthday to-morrow?”
“I wish you many happy returns of the day.”
“Oh, no formalities between us; you know a plain fellow and an Old Castilian, and call a spade a spade; consequently I require no compliments from you, but consider yourself invited——”
“To what?”
“To dine with me.”
“Impossible.”
“You must.”
“I cannot,” I insist, trembling.