But, somehow, when one peeps in at the little courtyards the life itself doesn't seem so squalid. Any _patio_ you look into has a bit of color in the way of a child or a flower or a bright bit of garment. I thought of the three patrician women who, during the siege of Mexico, stood for several days up to their necks in water with only a handful of corn for nourishment, and of the last and noble Aztec king, Cuauhtemoc,[39] who, at the hour of Vespers, fell into the Spaniards' hands, and was brought to Cortés as he was standing on the terrace of a house in Tlaltelolco, watching the operations. Cortés asked him to be seated, but the young king put his hand on a poignard that Cortés carried in his belt and asked him to kill him, because, having done what he could to save his kingdom and his people, it only remained for him to die. He was the son-in-law of Montezuma, and was escaping in a canoe with his young wife, just emerging into womanhood, when he was captured. History is so _evident_ here and so in relief--I have never lived in a place where the past follows and arrests one as here, though I doubt if Madame Madero, trying to pierce the heavy curtain of the future, gave it a thought this morning. _March 12th._ The Blair Flandraus are here now, visiting Madame Bonilla. He is the "brother" in that delightful book, _Viva Mexico_, that I sent you, and meeting him made me remember a line where one brother says to the other brother, "What very agreeable people one runs across in queer, out-of-the-way places," meaning themselves, and quite warranted, as I have discovered. I had a luncheon to-day for Mrs. Flandrau, and Madame Bonilla, Madame del Rio, Madame Simon, and Madame Scherer came. In the afternoon bridge at Madame Bonilla's, at which husbands and also the unattached and solitary appeared. In Mexico, when you have spent one part of the day with people, it isn't, as in more conventional climes, a reason for avoiding them the other hours. We are all rather amused by the visible romance of a young _querido_ (lover) who stands for hours leaning against the garden rail of a big, handsome house in the Calle Liverpool, wherein his _inamorata_ dwells. The irate father has just built a trellis above the wall, gardeners are busy, and the quickly growing vines will soon make it a rather bootless pastime for the young man to _pelar la pava_. The girl is watched every moment, quite in the way of old dramas concerning unwelcome lovers, determined _Dulcineas_, and vigilant _duennas_. _March 14th._