Hardly could the monk give a rapid glance at the table and a final order to José before young Crowberry was upon him, plunging from one room to another and back again, like a dog just off the leash. He poked his nose into everything, and kept on rattling out a thousand criticisms and witticisms. "Mind you count these, later on," he chattered, as he weighed two silver spoons in his two hands. "If you find one missing, go through the pockets of that Excellent Creature, Mrs. Baxter. What's this? That beastly green wine? Pour it down the sink. And, look here, I say, mind you, da Rocha: don't forget to remember what I said about Isabel Kaye-Templeman. Where did you get this cloth? By the way, Sir Percy isn't such a bad old sort, after all. Have you got any more of that orange brandy? I'll have mine in this." He rang his knuckles against José's great green bowl. Then his quick eye noticed that the best chair in the house was at the right of the table-head. "H'llo!" he said, "Isabel on your right? Of course. Couldn't be anywhere else. Now mind: you've got to tell me what you think of her--just what you really and truly and honestly think. Where are you putting the Excellent Creature?" "At the foot," said Antonio. "Between your excellent self and your excellent father. On your left you'll have the excellent Isabel. On my left I shall have the excellent Sir Percival." "Then Heaven help you," said young Crowberry. "Still, you'll have Isabel on your right. And be sure to remember--" III Antonio hurried to the door. His guests, with the exception of Mrs. Baxter, who was following in the chariot with a hamper of silver and linen, had reached the little white gate of the garden. Mr. Crowberry rushed in first. "Good, good, good," he cried, wringing the monk's hand up and down. Antonio noticed with pleasure that his old employer now treated him as a social equal; but it pleased him more and touched him deeply to find that Mr. Crowberry was overflowing with honest delight at his reunion with a friend. Before he could reply he was being presented to Sir Percival. Sir Percival submitted to the ceremony inattentively. Nine-tenths of his wits were evidently engaged with something or somebody else. He was a tall, thin, straight, soldierly man, whose scanty gray hair and disproportionately luxuriant mustache made his head look too small and bird-like. His cheeks were a trifle red, his gray eyes bright and restless. As soon as one quick glance had assured him that Antonio did not mean to do him any harm, he seemed to lose interest in his host and in his surroundings.