Your strong, good coffee and fresh French bread are brought to your bedroom at seven in the morning, and then, before the sun is unpleasantly strong, you have your walk on the beach after watching the little narrow gauge train start with the business men for Santos. At eleven you go to the dining-room for a four or five course breakfast. At four o’clock you will make your own tea on your spirit lamp and have some of Huntley and Palmer’s biscuits. (When the “biscuits” are eaten the box is just what you want to keep your kid gloves from mold and your gluey laces from being eaten by insects. I was not surprised to read of a British Bible Society making Bibles for Central Africa of a size and shape “to fit in biscuit boxes,” that they may be preserved from the ravages of ants, these biscuits being for sale in all such climates.) At five the Brazilians begin to dine. You wait till six, but some are still in the dining-room. You wonder at the parents, who give wine out of their own bottles to babies not more than two or three years old; and at the seven-year-old who invites a half dozen of her own age to dine with her on her birthday, and at the close of the meal has her health drunk in champagne by her mates with experienced clinking of glasses. You make a note of the little American boy five years old, lately arrived, who quickly learns the ways of the country. He asks his mother for a bag of marbles and some money. “What is the money for, my son?” “Why you can’t play marbles here unless you play for money,” says the wee man. You watch the new arrivals and wonder what are the relationships in this big family--a father, two mothers, or aunts, or what? with those children. You soon appreciate the exalted place given to the godmother, and she it is who is neither aunt nor mother at that table--a law unto herself and them. Of course she is invited when the family comes to the seashore! I remember an Anglo-Brazilian gentleman once became very angry at this same hotel because he was not given a very good room, “and my _compadre_ (associate father, god-father of the son) the President of this hotel company!” You watch the keen, unprincipled-looking boy just down from the great Jesuit school with whom the hotel manager is vexed “because he is such a little liar.”