I laughed, a little hysterically, and bade Bill show Wright to his room. After which, with a sense of having scored, I waited for the men near the dining-table, luncheon having been announced.
"We're late today," I said, as we all sat down. "I postponed the sacred meal a little to allow you to arrive."
"It's only one-thirty," objected Wright, looking at his watch.
"I know, but one does things differently in Guayabal," I said, explaining our usual routine.
"Some life!" said the newly initiated. "Suits me. Let's stay on here forever. I imagine," he went on, turning to include us both in his remark, "that nothing could have been more perfect for the lune de miel."
Bill was silent, but I agreed hastily.
"And now tell us about Santiago," I said.
The recital occupied most of the conversational part of the meal pleasantly enough.
"See my pretty senoritas?" asked Bill, passing the cigarettes.
"Cuban?" inquired Wright, taking one. "That's good—I've developed a passion for them. No, not a senorita. All I saw were at least ninety and weighed a ton."