Now, she was seated on one of the long, low benches in the patio of her father’s hotel, her head slightly shaded by the flowers and foliage behind her, while the sun streamed in spots and showed the clear color of her face and hands. Jones thought he had never seen anything quite so charming as the play of sunshine and shadow—and the pretty head with its black lace mantilla. But how was he to express emotion? or admiration? or anything? Certainly not in Spanish—if so, it must of necessity be a brief and painful expression. Still, Jones was of a sturdy New England stock that had despised difficulties as far back as the Mayflower, and was not to be deterred by the lack of a common medium. He cleared his throat, shuffled his feet so as to attract attention to his maneuver and crossed the patio to where she was seated. “Do you _habla_ English, _señorita_?” he began, bravely enough. “_No, señor_,” she said, with a demure droop of the eyes and a little smile. “The deuce you don’t!” he started to ejaculate, but wisely refrained, aware that its appropriate application would hardly appeal to her. Instead, he began again: “Ahem!—perhaps—er—I might _hablo_ Spanish, then: _no sabe mucho_ myself,” he added, as if with a sudden inspiration. But the maid merely tapped the stone floor with a small slipper to the distant music of a band in the plaza around the corner, and made no effort to help him in his dilemma, though she sent him a smile of reassurance when he flushed and made a move to withdraw. And then a glorious idea occurred to Jones. There was Francisco, the remarkably radiant Francisco, all smiles because of his connection with the _casa_! Francisco was not only chief cook, but enjoyed the distinction of serving his own dishes in the dining room—and washing them afterwards. Jones remembered with satisfaction the smattering of choice English, with a French flavor, that Francisco was wont to perpetrate on the guests of the house. Francisco’s English was bad enough, thought Jones, but not quite as bad as it might have been—especially in those lucid intervals when he was anxious to see if the _Americano’s_ purse-string pulled _con mucho gusto_. Certainly Francisco should be given a chance; he should act as interpreter; he should tell the _señorita_ what he (Jones) thought of her, and perchance he (Jones) might find out what she thought of him. “Eet ees that the _señor_ weeshes that I make the speech for heem?” Francisco inquired, with a polite shrug of the shoulders, when Jones explained to him the emergency of the situation. “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?_”