es the
wife in French, and gives orders to the servant of this polyglot
establishment in Spanish. Finally we are stowed in rooms opening on
the wide veranda that encloses the patio. A hasty toilet and we meet
the Baron in the vestibule downstairs. We wander about the crooked
streets from shop to shop, getting at a jeweller's some ancient
coins, unalloyed gold and silver rudely stamped and cut out in
irregular shapes, the only currency when Central America was a Spanish
province. We are longest in the great market, buying curious pottery
from the Indians--calabash cups, brilliant serapes of native weaving
and lovely silk rebosas. We order a variety of fans--one kind is of
braided palm with clumsy handle ending in a rude brush. An Indian girl
shows me how the fan is used to make the fire burn more brightly, and
the brush to sweep the hearth. From market into the main Plaza, and
then to the cool shelter of the Cathedral, brings our short afternoon
to an end; we must hurry back to our dinner appointment. The Baron
grumbles vigorously when he discovers he was included in the
invitation, and that Mrs. Steele promised to bring him.

"Really, he hasn't seemed like himself all this afternoon," says Mrs.
Steele, when we are once more in our rooms, which conveniently adjoin.

"No, he can be conspicuously disagreeable when he likes." I have in
mind the "baranca" episode.

"What do you suppose makes him so absent-minded and constrained,
Blanche?"

"Simple perversity, very likely." I stand in the communicating
doorway, brushing a jacket. I am conscious that Mrs. Steele pauses in
her toilet and looks keenly in my direction.

"I still like the Baron extremely, but I'm glad to see you are not so
unsophisticated or so unpractical as to be captivated by a pair of
fine eyes and a melodious voice. I was once uncomplimentary enough to
be afraid of the effect of such close intercourse for both of you. You
two are cut out to make each other happy for a few weeks, and
miserable for a lifetime. You should both be thankful that your
acquaintance is to be counted by pleasant days and ended before the
regretful years begin."

"Really, I don't know what put all that in your head!"

"Observation, my dear! In spite of the velvet cloak of courtesy, our
Peruvian is a born tyrant, and you--forgive me--but you know you're
the very child of caprice. I am most thankful, however, that you are
not impressionable. Otherwise this experience might leave