We awoke, very late, in a town that is wide avenued, full of motors, and disappointingly civilized. The civilization may be only skin deep, and may not extend beyond the town limits, who knows...? But for people who looked for and hoped for something primitive, disordered and tropical, to find order, dullness and coolness, is ridiculous. Louise and I, comparing notes as to our expectations and realizations, simply laugh. Vera Cruz wasn’t very civilized, and the journey yesterday was as primitive as one could look for, but Mexico City appears to be cosmopolitan and up to date. In the morning, on our way back from shopping, we passed through a very pretty little garden, called “Alameda,” and there a band was playing. “Who’d work?” said Louise, as we seated ourselves on comfortable chairs under an awning, with matting under our feet. Certainly the people could have worked, who preferred, like us, to loaf and listen! Dick sailed an improvised boat in a fountain pond. The man who sat opposite came and sat next to us, otherwise all was harmony. After lunch we drove to Chapultepec, a more beautiful or well-cared-for park I have never seen. It positively outdoes the Bois de Boulogne. In comparison with Central Park, where one is so aggressively over-guarded by men with whistles, in spite of which the place is littered with paper, this park is as neat as a private garden. Everyone seems to behave with taste and decorum, and there seem to be no guards to keep order. One or two mounted police in gray and red, wearing large sombreros and riding gaily caparisoned ponies, added to the picturesqueness. We hired a boat for an hour and rowed on the lake, but the effort of rowing made one’s breath short, and one’s heart did a variety of irregular movements. I had heard that the high altitude effected one this way. On a hill close to us stood the castle of Chapultepec, with its distant background of mountains. A beautiful situation to live in, but the most unenviable of positions. I think I would prefer almost any fate on earth except that of President of Mexico. Like the Roman Rulers, one after another, doomed to destruction. FRIDAY, JULY 1, 1921. _Mexico._ In the morning I delivered my letter of introduction from Mr. Fletcher to Mr. Summerlin. In the afternoon I was asked to go and see him. He at once handed me a cable which had arrived the day before, and addressed to me under his care. It contained news that I read and re-read before my numbed brain could take it,--the announcement of Aunt Jennie’s[8] death. I tried to pull myself together and talk of things Mexican with Mr. Summerlin, who was very charming to me, but the weight of my news was overwhelming. I drove out to San Angel Inn, in the country with Dick and we had tea in the patio, where blue plumbago and magenta bougainvillia mingled together from the verandah to the roof. Dick played in a fountain. It was wondrously peaceful, and good to look at.