"Neither would Mrs. Steele if she had——"
"She nefer vould! Madame Steele ees a too vise voman. Vhat you dthink, Madame? Señorita inseest to lean out far ofer dthose steps; I beg her not, but——" he ends with a modest gesture of incompetence.
"And you," I begin, with a sudden determination to unmask his villainy, "you rushed over and——"
"And hold you zo dthat you fall not. Madame Steele, desairve I not dthanks?"
"Ah! yes, Baron. You are certainly very kind and watchful; but, Blanche, if you don't care for yourself, you ought to consider other people. It's a terrible responsibility to travel with such a foolhardy person. I can't say I'm sorry if you've been a little frightened. Take the brandy, dear."
My good friend is never severe long. The Baron holds the silver cup to my lips, and I shut out the sight of him—with closed eyes I drink the mixture obediently.
I lean my head against the window, and the voices of my friend and the Baron grow less and less distinct. The next thing I know Mrs. Steele is saying, "Is that Guatemala?" I rouse myself and look out. A white city on a wide plateau. Is this the "Paris of Central America," with its 70,000 inhabitants? Mrs. Steele is met in the dépot by some friends, Californians, who live here part of the year. We promise to dine with them, and the Baron comes back from his search for a carriage, saying one will be here presently.
"Vhile Madame Steele talks vidth her friends, vill you come zee dthe Trocadero, vhere dthey haf bull-fights?"
"No, thank you."
"Oh, I dthought you vould like."