“That’s just it,” Jones answered; “you see, neither of us understands the other, and—well, I rather like her looks, you know, Francisco. Sabe?”
“Si, señor,” and Francisco cleared away the remainder of a highly seasoned supper—then the two left the dining-room together. There were no longer any sunbeams to bring out the beauty of the flowers in the patio; but the landlord’s daughter was still sitting there in the twilight.
“Señorita—” Francisco paused with eloquent eyes, then turned to Jones for further instructions.
“Tell her,” said Jones, in a hoarse whisper, “tell her that she’s the most exquisite—no, no, don’t tell her that—tell her that she will catch cold out here in the patio,” he stammered.
“Señor, the señorita will run far eef you espeak like that,” Francisco remarked, with a deprecatory gesture of his brown hands.
“Well, tell her that I am delighted to see her looking so well,” was the next effort of the persistent Jones.
“But yes—that ees more well.” Then Francisco turned to the daughter of the house, indicated Jones with a curve of his thumb and spoke rapidly in Spanish. It might as well have been Dutch for all the good Jones got out of Francisco’s enthusiastic expressions. But the señorita smiled sweetly enough, and gave a glance from under her long lashes that was worth a world of trouble to Jones.
“A-ha!—we’re coming on, eh—Francisco? Now, tell the young lady that I—that she looks like a lovely little—er—rosebud.”
Again Francisco jabbered eloquently, eyes, hands and tongue making his meaning clear, apparently, for the señorita shyly drooped her head and replied coyly.