The glass door of the dining-room of the Hotel of the Four Nations
at Barcelona was opened softly, almost nervously, by a shock-headed
little man, who peered into the room.

One of the waiters stepped forward and drew out a chair.

"Thank ye--thank ye," said the new-comer, in a thick though pleasant
voice.

He looked around, rather bewildered--as if he had never seen a table
d'hote before. It almost appeared as if a doubt existed in his mind
whether or not he was expected to go and shake hands with some one
present, explaining who he was.

As, however, no one appeared to invite this confidence he took the
chair offered and sat gravely down.

The waiter laid the menu at his side, and the elderly diner, whose
face and person bespoke a seafaring life, gazed politely at it. He
was obviously desirous of avoiding hurting the young man's feelings,
but the card puzzled as much as it distressed him.

Observing with the brightest of blue eyes the manners and customs of
his neighbours, the old sailor helped himself to a little wine from
the decanter set in front of him, and filled up the glass with
water.

The waiter drew forward a small dish of olives and another
containing slices of red sausage of the thickness, consistency, and
flavour of a postage stamp. The Englishman looked dubiously at