detect an easiness of deportment and a propriety that did not
seem absolutely strange since he was a Spaniard, but which struck
me, nevertheless, as requiring some explanation. I asked him,
civilly, who he was. He answered that his name was Diego.

"You speak French?"

"I am of Guipuzcoa, my lord," he answered, "where we sometimes
speak three tongues."

"That is true," I said. "And it is your trade to make tennis
balls?"

"No, my lord; to use them," he answered with a certain dignity.

"You are a player, then?"

"If it please your excellency."

"Where have you played?"

"At Madrid, where I was the keeper of the Duke of Segovia's
court; and at Toledo, where I frequently had the honour of
playing against M. de Montserrat."

"You are a good player?"

"If your excellency," he answered impulsively, "will give me an
opportunity--"