Doña Eulalia put up her fan at the sound of Peter's Spanish; but understanding the drift of his remark, replied gravely enough:
"Bése usted los manos, Señor."
"What's that, Philip?"
"My hands for your kisses, Señor."
"Will I have to kiss them?" asked Peter, in dismay.
"No; it's only a matter of form."
At this assurance, the doctor was much relieved, and not feeling any profound interest in a dialogue carried on completely in a foreign tongue, returned to his examination of the Aztec gods. Maraquando was already deep in conversation with Jack and Tim, so Philip had Doña Eulalia all to himself, and made good use of this solitude of two. He was glad he knew Spanish. 'Tis a pleasant language in which to talk gay nonsense.
On her side, Eulalia had no strong objection to the company of this eccentric American—all foreigners are Americans with the Cholacacans—and though he was a heretic, yet he spoke Spanish beautifully, and had no lack of pretty sayings at his command. Doña Eulalia would have flirted with a lepero in default of anything better; and as Don Felipe was a most desirable young man from every point of view, she lost no time in making herself agreeable. Philip, the cynic, enjoyed it greatly, thereby proving that a considerable portion of his misogamy was humbug. With the hour comes the eternal feminine. This was the hour—Eulalia the woman. It flashed across Philip's mind at that moment that he was playing with fire. Confident in his own imperviousness to fire, he went on playing. Then he burnt himself, and great was his outcry.
"I always understood," said Cassim to his charming companion, "that Cholacacan ladies were shut up like nuns."
"A great many of them are, Señor," replied Eulalia, demurely; "but my father is more liberal in his ideas. He delights in presenting us to his friends."