"But time's up.
Business is business.

Good-by; don't let me keep you." He extended his hand.
The Padre met it with a dry, unsympathetic palm, as sere and yellow as the hills.

When their hands separated, the father still hesitated, looking at Cranch.

If he expected further speech or entreaty from him he was mistaken, for the American, without turning his head, walked in the same serious, practical fashion down the avenue of fig trees, and disappeared beyond the hedge of vines.

The outlines of the mountain beyond were already lost in the fog.