A low volley of French so quick and excited that I cannot follow it is the Peruvian's reply. I am a little bit uneasy at the look in his face; the glow of ruddy health runs out like a fast-ebbing tide, and although I have not understood his French, with the intuition of my sex I comprehend his face, and I look around for the rest of the party. He catches the glance and seems to struggle for self-control.
"Señorita, take my arm; ve shall valk. I vill hope to teach Señorita zome day dthat Peruvians air no liars."
"Ah, Baron," I say deprecatingly, "I never meant that, you didn't understand me—I——"
"No," he interrupts—"I know dthat often I understand you not and zometimes it ees my so bad Eenglish dthat ees to blame. If I could tell you all in Spanish you must believe," and before all the people in the Plaza he lifts the hand that lies on his arm and kisses it.
I flash a horrified look around, but no one seems to have noticed.
"Like you dthe Spanish tongue?" he asks quite unconcerned.
"Yes, very much," I say, glad to get him on some impersonal subject, "it is the most musical in the world, I believe."
"You vould soon learn it," he says, "you understand many words now, I know by your face. Can you say my name, I vondair; try! Federico Guillermo."
"Federico Guillermo," I repeat imperfectly—"what a beautiful name!"
"Dthen Blanca vill call me 'Guillermo.' I like not 'de Baron de Bach' from her lips. Besides ve use not titles in Peru."