"She vould zay dthat if she die. You stay here, Señorita; Madame Steele be not long."
The idea flits across my mind he has some reason of his own for not wanting me to go; but I've no notion of being left alone.
"No, I'll go with you, Mrs. Steele."
"After I escort Madame, I go to dthe photographic gallery; I buy you all dthose pictures ve haf not time to get dthis afternoon. I send dthem to your room; you vill not be lonely."
"Oh, why can't we all go to the gallery? I do so want a collection of views. I want nothing else so much!" I plead.
It ends by our driving to Casa 47, in a wide street opposite the public gardens. The Baron dismisses the coachman, telling him to come back in a couple of hours, and I drop the iron knocker on the massive door. A native servant draws the bolts, and our interpreter asks for "Señora Baldwin." We follow the picturesque little maid through a tiled vestibule into a starlight patio. The usual ground veranda encloses this fragrant court, the various rooms opening on it.
We are ushered into one brilliantly lit and luxuriously furnished, and the hostess and her sister make us welcome. The French consul is there with his secretary, and the conversation is mostly in their tongue. Mrs. Baldwin shows us an album of enchanting views of Guatemala and the abandoned city of Antigua, so beautifully situated and so earthquake-cursed.
"More than ever," says Mrs. Steele, "I regret we did not omit something else, and take time to get photographs."
"It's not too late," our hostess says.
"Oh, no," the Baron interposes. "I go now to get dthem. I vas dthinking if Madame vould like Señorita to choose them."