About eight that night, as master and man were returning from their usual Sunday evening exercises in the abbey chapel, Antonio told José that he had sheltered under Senhor Jorge's roof and that he had promised to assist at one of his serões. José tramped along without replying: but it was plain he had a comment to make. "Is there something you want to say, José?" asked Antonio. "If so, why don't you say it?" After stumping on another twenty paces in silence José grunted: "Senhor Jorge has a daughter." "I know. The Senhorita Margarida." Although they were a third of a mile from home José shut his mouth and did not open it again until they were in the house, with the door shut. Then he spoke. "I ask pardon of your Reverence," he began, using the forbidden title with unconcealed deliberation. "Your Reverence is a holy monk. He understands Latin and French and English. He understands oranges and grapes, and winepresses and stills, better than anybody else in Portugal. But he doesn't understand all the ways of the world--especially young women." "While you, José," retorted Antonio, "understand all the ways of the world--especially young women--perfectly." "I don't, Father," protested José in alarm, "and nobody else, either--may God help us all! But I understand a thing here and a thing there. The truth is, Father--" "Don't call me Father. The truth is what?" "The truth is," replied José, in a mysterious whisper, "they want to find a husband for the Senhorita Margarida." "Go on." "Senhor Jorge wants to find some one rich--like your Worship. And Donna Perpetua wants to find a born gentleman--like your Worship." "Not to beat about the bush," Antonio interrupted, "you mean that Senhor Jorge and Donna Perpetua want ... me?" José admitted it and began apologizing for his presumptuous interference; but Antonio cut him short by saying: "You have done quite right to talk with me like this. Thanks. Never ask pardon for speaking plainly. Now we will eat our bread." It was the custom of the two men to dine on Sundays before going up to the abbey, and to eat a small broa, dipped in wine, on their return. They sat down to this simple supper, without any more words about Margarida, and confined themselves to arranging the farm-work for the morrow. At half-past eight José lit his lantern and went off to bed. The monk made no haste to follow his example. The room was chilly after the rain: so he kindled a fire of cork-cuttings and walnut-shells. It blazed up lustily, and José's copper and pewter reflected the cheerful light. Antonio blew out the useless candle, drew a chair up to the warmth, and sat down. Outside, the stillness was profound. José, no doubt, had already fallen asleep. No dog barked, no bird of night cried. Even the Atlantic lay hushed.