He seemed disposed to show Robledo the remarkable “shrine of flowers” when suddenly he sped away, mumbling excuses, in the direction of the entrance to the park. Elena was arriving! And, just as he ran, so did her other admirers; but, after greeting them all three, she quite frankly showed her preference for Watson, who had, with a somewhat more dignified pace, also gone to meet her. Even while she talked to the others she did not cease looking at the youth with caressing glances. Robledo, watching the group from afar, was immediately aware of the preference Elena was betraying for his young partner.
Annoyed by this discovery, he drew near to pay his respects to the guest of honor. Then he turned to Watson, and, in a low tone, asked him to take a turn through the tree-bordered allée. But Watson pretended not to understand him. Finally Canterac, who, as the creator of the fiesta, assumed an overwhelming superiority, interposed, and separating Elena from the others, offered her his arm. He must show her all the beauties of his park.... Robledo took advantage of this diversion to lead Watson away under the trees. Scarcely were they alone when, in a fatherly tone, and with a slight nod towards the woman who was walking away down the path, leaning on Canterac’s arm, he said,
“Take care, Richard, my boy! This Circe of ours is trying to subdue you too to her enchantments....”
But Watson, who had always listened deferentially to his partner up to the present, now looked haughtily at him.
“I am old enough to know how to take care of myself,” he replied drily. “Besides, when I want advice I shall ask for it.”
Muttering a few words that Robledo could not make out, young Watson turned his back on him and left him.
Robledo was startled by the boy’s manner. Then he grew indignant.
“This woman again! She goes too far ... robbing me of my best friend....”
The most interesting part of the fiesta, as far as the majority of the guests were concerned, was about to begin. Friterini began to shout out orders to the half-breeds who were to be the waitresses of the occasion. On the tables, made of boards laid on small wooden horses, and covered with recently laundered tablecloths, the rarest and most savory delicacies of the boliche and the other dispensaries of meat and drink in the immediate vicinity of Rio Negro, were being assembled. From Europe and the distant parts of America came choice morsels that had a flavor of tin and tin foil. There were potted meats from Chicago, Frankfort’s famous sausages, French pâté de foie gras, Galician sardines, peppers from Rioja, olives from Seville, all of them foods that had crossed the ocean in metal boxes or wooden crates.
Most extraordinary of all were the drinks. Only a few gringos, those who were natives of the so-called “Latin countries,” paid any attention to the bottles of dusky wine. The other guests, especially the native sons of the soil, considered all beverages of a reddish hue very ordinary drinks indeed, and quite beneath their notice. In their opinion the clearness and colorlessness of a wine was a mark of its aristocracy. The popping of champagne corks resounded continuously. And many were there who tossed off the sparkling wines as though they were water.