her glass.

"Don't you understand?" I say hotly. "I want water--_Wasser_! _De
l'eau--Aqua!_"

The waiter starts at the last word and takes up a clay carafe.

The Baron shakes his head and gives some brief command in Spanish. The
servant looks sulky and puts down the bottle.

"What do you mean?" I say, with still smarting tongue. "Is it Spanish
etiquette to ask a lady to supper and then refuse her a glass of
water?"

"Madame," says the Peruvian quietly to Mrs. Steele, "no von here
drink vater; it makes always fery seeck," and he signs to the servant
to serve the next course.

"I despise _vino blanco_," I say; "I'd as soon drink weak vinegar."
Nevertheless I sip my second glass, as there is no prospect of
anything else.

A "moso" comes in with a big basket containing our purchases. I beckon
him to bring it to me, and look among the limes for my precious
plantain.

"Senorita," says the Peruvian, breaking off a conversation with Mrs.
Steele upon native dishes, "I haf here pineapple sairve vidth ice and
sugar and vine; it is dthe most delicieux of all fruit. Allow me to
raicommend you." And the waiter puts the tempting plate before me.

"Thank you," I say, "but I am looking for my plantain. Will you have
the boy find it, there are so many things in this basket?" A few words
between the "moso" and the Baron, the latter smiles a little.

"_Tres curieux_, dthat old voman forget to put in dthat plantain!"

Mrs. Steele's amusement is most offensive.

"My dear, you are in the power of the interpreter; you will find our
friend less manageable on shore than on board the _San Miguel_."

The Baron looks innocence itself and creates a diversion by throwing
pieces of roll out over the lattice to the street children, whose
black eyes and black fingers appear through the slats. Each piece is
received with squeals, a grand rush and protracted squabbling, and
finally the more audacious appear at the door. They peep in, throw us
a flower and then scuttle away. One tiny beggar brings a small bouquet
and puts it in my lap. The Baron gives her a media and says something
about "vamos." She flies off, but only to tell the rest of the success
of her mission, and the whole horde troop in and pile the corner of
the table with more or less faded roses and appeal vociferously for
"Media! media!" The Baron, seeing that we are amused, tosses a coin
over their heads. It goes over the lattice and into the street, and
the black little troo