a turn in the market-place while the gigantic shadow of
Higuerota was still lying upon the fruit and flower stalls piled up
with masses of gorgeous colouring, attending easily to current affairs,
welcomed in houses, greeted by ladies on the Alameda, with his
entry into all the clubs and a footing in the Casa Gould, he led his
privileged old bachelor, man-about-town existence with great comfort and
solemnity. But on mail-boat days he was down at the Harbour Office at an
early hour, with his own gig, manned by a smart crew in white and
blue, ready to dash off and board the ship directly she showed her bows
between the harbour heads.

It would be into the Harbour Office that he would lead some privileged
passenger he had brought off in his own boat, and invite him to take a
seat for a moment while he signed a few papers. And Captain Mitchell,
seating himself at his desk, would keep on talking hospitably--

"There isn't much time if you are to see everything in a day. We shall
be off in a moment. We'll have lunch at the Amarilla Club--though I
belong also to the Anglo-American--mining engineers and business men,
don't you know--and to the Mirliflores as well, a new club--English,
French, Italians, all sorts--lively young fellows mostly, who wanted
to pay a compliment to an old resident, sir. But we'll lunch at the
Amarilla. Interest you, I fancy. Real thing of the country. Men of the
first families. The President of the Occidental Republic himself belongs
to it, sir. Fine old bishop with a broken nose in the patio. Remarkable
piece of statuary, I believe. Cavaliere Parrochetti--you know
Parrochetti, the famous Italian sculptor--was working here for two
years--thought very highly of our old bishop. . . . There! I am very
much at your service now."

Proud of his experience, penetrated by the sense of historical
importance of men, events, and buildings, he talked pompously in jerky
periods, with slight sweeps of his short, thick arm, letting nothing
"escape the attention" of his privileged captive.

"Lot of building going on, as you observe. Before the Separation it
was a plain of burnt grass smothered in clouds of dust, with an ox-cart
track to our Jetty. Nothing more. This is the Harbour Gate. Picturesque,
is it not? Formerly the town stopped short there. We enter now the Calle
de la Constitucion. Observe the old Spanish houses. Great dignity. Eh? I
suppose it's just as it was in the time of the Viceroys, except for the