"You ask me vonce vhat kind was a Castilian rose. Look, Senorita, so _weich so suess, so fein, wie die Castilien Frauen_," and he hands me a pale pink rose, loose-petalled, fragile, and very fragrant. With great bunches in our hands we leave the hospital garden, and I notice with irritation that the dark young man in bidding me good-bye, long life and happiness, salutes me as "Senora." It is six o'clock and we drive towards the town. The narrow streets are full of idlers in every attitude of picturesque languor. Mrs. Steele sympathises deeply with the lean and patient little burros with wooden racks on their backs holding on either side a clay jar filled with water. [Illustration: "LOOK, SENORITA!"--_Page 48_] "Efery yar ees two media, about twenty-five cent your money. Vater ees more dearer dthan vine," explains our interpreter. We find all the rest of the company assembled at the Hotel Nacional in the gallery on the ground floor that looks into the _patio_. Mrs. Steele and I are shown by a native servant (half Indian, I should think) into a room across the court, where we make a primitive toilet. This is the very best hotel of Mazatlan, but the guest chamber is guiltless of carpet or rug; the one high window, grated and latticed, looks into the narrow street. A bed heavily draped with coarse curtains stands in one corner, and under a cracked glass giving forth a freckled and bilious reflection stands the deal toilet-table. A tin pan does duty for bowl, a delightful old clay carafe holds the water, and an abalone shell contains a bit of yellow laundry soap. With these aids to beauty we reappear refreshed and ready for the dinner that is spread in the half-open gallery. Only a trellis thickly mantled with grape vines is between us and the garden; indeed, over the top of this screen I can see, as I sit at the table, the vine-leaves rise and fall in the soft air, and the more ambitious tendrils daintily pencilled against the red sky of that lovely Mexican evening. An odd dinner it is; but Senor Noma makes a most courteous host, and the dishes are certainly rare and interesting--generally peppery beyond words to describe and most of them liberally seasoned with garlic. But the luscious fruits, the "_vino blanco_," and champagne cool our smarting palates and reconcile us to our gastronomic ventures. At the beginning of the meal, out of the meditative mood that has overtaken him, Baron de Bach rouses himself to enter into earnest conversation with the little Mexican boy who is helping to serve us. I notice the boy's snapping black eyes and fine oval face, and how he nods with an added gleam as he says "_Si! si!_" to every remark of the Baron's, and finally disappears. In a few minutes he returns and presents a large bunch of lovely orchids to Mrs. Steele. Then he exchanges a few words with the Baron and is off again like a shot.