ent to India with me, you remember my speaking
of him--and they are good natured, too, except at meal times. The little
hostess, Mrs. Wilson, took over the cooking, and although luncheon was
better than breakfast, the food still leaves much to the imagination.

I wish you could see this Mrs. Wilson, Hal. You would change a whole lot
of your ideas. She is a thoroughbred, sure enough, and of course some
of her beauty is the result of the exquisite care about which you and
I--still from our Andean pinnacle--used to rant. But the fact is, she is
more than that. She has fire, and pluck, no end. If you could have seen
her this morning, standing in front of a cold kitchen range, determined
to conquer it, and had seen the tilt of her chin when I offered to take
over the cooking--you needn't grin; I can cook, and you know it--you
would understand what I mean. It was so clear that she was paralyzed
with fright at the idea of getting breakfast, and equally clear that
she meant to do it. By the way, I have learned that her name was McNair
before she married this would-be artist, Wilson, and that she is a
daughter of the McNair who financed the Callao branch!

I have not met the others so intimately. There are two sisters named
Mercer, inclined to be noisy--they are playing roulette in the next
room now. One is small and dark, almost Hebraic in type, named Leila and
called Lollie. The other, larger, very blonde and languishing, and with
a decided preference for masculine society, even, saving the mark,
mine! Dallas Brown's wife, good looking, smokes cigarettes when I am not
around--they all do, except Mrs. Wilson.

Then there is a maiden aunt, who is ill today with grippe and
excitement, and a Miss Knowles, who came for a moment last night to
see Mrs. Wilson, was caught in the quarantine (see papers), and, after
hiding all night in the basement, is sulking all day in her room. Her
presence created an excitement out of all proportion to the apparent
cause.

From the fact that I have reason to know that my artist host and his
beautiful wife are on bad terms, and from the significant glances with
which the announcement of Miss Knowles' presence was met, the state of
affairs seems rather clear. Wilson impresses me as a spineless sort,
anyhow, and when the lady of the basement shut herself away from the
rest today and I happened on "Jimmy," as they call him, pleading with
her through the door, I very nearly kicked him down the stairs.