“_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. “Tell her,” prompted Jones, devouring the star-like face, set in its frame of jetty ringlets, “tell her I am going to walk around the plaza. Ask her if she is going.” “She says she cannot to go this night,” was the translation he received. “She ees painful.” “Well—er—tell her—er—” “That you go to dream of her, you theenk of her alone only?” suggested the accommodating Francisco. “Yes, and—er—tell her that I—that we—will talk again. Tell her that—will you, Francisco?” After Francisco had conveyed this expression in its proper form, with all the courtesy of the occasion, the two retired—Francisco to the _cocina_, where the dishes were waiting to be washed, Jones to promenade in the plaza and swing his cane to the music of La Paloma. Visions of further conversations with the distracting beauty flitted before him as he strolled under the orange trees—visions wherein the useful Francisco figured not at all; wherein he saw himself holding a little rose-leaf hand and uttering sweet nothings which needed neither bad Spanish nor broken English for their interpretation.