Carmona lay before him, and through the smoke of his cigarette he
looked with quiet, unobtrusive eyes, studying . . . studying.

Presently an old man entered. This little table was his by right of
precedence. He had been sitting at it the night before when the
Englishman had elected to sit beside him; bowing as he did so in the
Spanish manner, and clapping his hands in the way of Spain, to call
the waiter when he was seated.

It was this evening the turn of the old man to bow, and the
Englishman returned his salutation. They sat some time in silence,
but when Cartoner passed the sugar the innate politeness of the
Spaniard perceived the call for conversation.

"His Excellency is not of Seville?" he said, with a pleasant smile
on his wrinkled, clean-shaven face.

"No; I am an Englishman."

"Oh!"

The keen old face hardened suddenly, until the features were like
the wrinkles of a walnut; and the Spaniard drew himself up with all
the dignity of his race.

The quiet eyes of Cartoner of the Foreign Office never left his
face. Cartoner was surprised; for he knew Spain--he was aware that
the Peninsular War had not been forgotten. He had never, in
whatsoever place or situation, found it expedient to conceal his
nationality.