He welcomed us warmly into _la casa de ustedes_, appearing with _El Pais_ in his hand. He pressed us to stay for the _comida_. We delicately answered that we had sandwiches, and only wanted shelter, but we allowed ourselves to be persuaded. His once-handsome wife shortly appeared, dressed in a white sack and a blue rebozo, accompanied by several boys and a really beautiful girl of about eighteen, and we all went into the long, low-ceilinged dining-room. The _administrador_ and his spouse sat cozily side by side, the children near them, and we three at the other end, together with a friend of theirs--some local functionary. The room was dusky, the windows curtained _outside_ by sheets of water, but the table was bountifully spread with such a typical repast of well-to-do Mexicans of that class that you will be interested in the menu. We began with a _sopa de frijoles_,[63] followed by plates of hot tortillas, and a big dish of rice decorated with fried eggs, slices of fried bananas, and bacon. _Mole de guajolote_[64] was the _pièce de résistance_. I inclose the receipt for it, which Madame Lefaivre sent me the other day. Taking it from the philosophic point of view, it is the image of their politics; _melé_, _melo_, _mole_, and the result very indigestible. Pulque was served in lovely old engraved glass-jars, and was very liberally poured out to us in only slightly smaller glasses. It was the far-famed _Pulque fino de Apam_, but seeing that we did no more than politely sip in spite of all the urging (if one could lose one's sense of smell, one _could_ go ahead), the _administrador_ disappeared, and came back with a dusty bottle of _Xeres_ of some old mark. There were various sweets on the table: _cajetas de Celaya_,[65] celebrated all over Mexico, guava jelly, and a sweet looking somewhat like it, called _membrillate_, made of quince-juice. The little local functionary seemed somewhat annoyed to find us there. I suppose he looked on that Sunday dinner as his special appearance, and strange people had come in and monopolized the stage. His contribution to the conversation was the complaint that when Americans come to Mexico they continue to speak English. I pointed out that most of us would give half our kingdom to possess in return _la lengua castellana_, and that we did not _all_ use it _all_ the time because we couldn't. At this point Mr. S. humbly said he was speaking what he thought was Spanish, and he answered, "You are an exception," but he continued a somewhat muffled conversation with Mr. de Soto. The more I looked at the daughter the more I saw she was of an extraordinary loveliness; not Spanish, not Indian, but some third thing--was it Arab?--showing distinctly through these two. She looked at us as if we kept the keys of the gate of heaven, _i.e._, escape from the hacienda. The only door open to her, however, is marriage, and that will lead to a stone wall, as far as horizon is concerned.