"Ask her to send them to the hotel," I say. He gives the old woman some rapid directions.
"Now ve vill haf supper," and we are soon sitting in a private room at the hotel discussing soup, fish, tortillas and frejoles (the Mexican black bean) and enchalades, which are only the coarse Indian meal cakes, "tortillas," rolled up like a French pancake, with cheese and cayenne pepper and a variety of disagreeable things inside, but considered quite a delicacy among Mexicans. It is long before I recover from my first mouthful, and the Baron stands over me with a fan and a glass of wine, while Mrs. Steele laughs until the tears come into her eyes.
"Water! water!" I gasp.
"No, vino blanco, Señorita," says the Baron, putting the glass to my lips. I drain the last drop.
"Yes, leedle more vino blanco," says the Peruvian, pouring out another 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?"