xceptional woman. Those who thought she
would give way to despair were mistaken, sir. She has been blamed in
many quarters for not having taken the veil. It was expected of her. But
Dona Antonia is not the stuff they make nuns of. Bishop Corbelan, her
uncle, lives with her in the Corbelan town house. He is a fierce sort of
priest, everlastingly worrying the Government about the old Church lands
and convents. I believe they think a lot of him in Rome. Now let us go
to the Amarilla Club, just across the Plaza, to get some lunch."

Directly outside the cathedral on the very top of the noble flight
of steps, his voice rose pompously, his arm found again its sweeping
gesture.

"Porvenir, over there on that first floor, above those French
plate-glass shop-fronts; our biggest daily. Conservative, or, rather, I
should say, Parliamentary. We have the Parliamentary party here of which
the actual Chief of the State, Don Juste Lopez, is the head; a very
sagacious man, I think. A first-rate intellect, sir. The Democratic
party in opposition rests mostly, I am sorry to say, on these
socialistic Italians, sir, with their secret societies, camorras, and
such-like. There are lots of Italians settled here on the railway lands,
dismissed navvies, mechanics, and so on, all along the trunk line. There
are whole villages of Italians on the Campo. And the natives, too, are
being drawn into these ways . . . American bar? Yes. And over there you
can see another. New Yorkers mostly frequent that one----Here we are at
the Amarilla. Observe the bishop at the foot of the stairs to the right
as we go in."

And the lunch would begin and terminate its lavish and leisurely course
at a little table in the gallery, Captain Mitchell nodding, bowing,
getting up to speak for a moment to different officials in black
clothes, merchants in jackets, officers in uniform, middle-aged
caballeros from the Campo--sallow, little, nervous men, and fat, placid,
swarthy men, and Europeans or North Americans of superior standing,
whose faces looked very white amongst the majority of dark complexions
and black, glistening eyes.

Captain Mitchell would lie back in the chair, casting around looks of
satisfaction, and tender over the table a case full of thick cigars.

"Try a weed with your coffee. Local tobacco. The black coffee you get at
the Amarilla, sir, you don't meet anywhere in the world. We get the bean
from a famous cafeteria in the foot-hills, whose owner sen