The old woman in charge gabbles away for dear life, and, not feeling that I am progressing very rapidly, I lay down a media and take up the plantain. The Baron comes to my rescue with a half-amused, half-vexed smile. "She haf cheat you," and he levels a volley of Spanish at the old criminal. "See," he says, "she vill gif you all dthose limes if you gif back dthat plantain, you vill be glad of limes _abord du San Miguel_." "Yes," I say. "I'll have the limes, too." And I put down another media. He looks at me curiously. "Ask her to send them to the hotel," I say. He gives the old woman some rapid directions. "Now ve vill haf supper," and we are soon sitting in a private room at the hotel discussing soup, fish, tortillas and frejoles (the Mexican black bean) and enchalades, which are only the coarse Indian meal cakes, "tortillas," rolled up like a French pancake, with cheese and cayenne pepper and a variety of disagreeable things inside, but considered quite a delicacy among Mexicans. It is long before I recover from my first mouthful, and the Baron stands over me with a fan and a glass of wine, while Mrs. Steele laughs until the tears come into her eyes. "Water! water!" I gasp. "No, _vino blanco_, Senorita," says the Baron, putting the glass to my lips. I drain the last drop. "Now some water, please." "Yes, leedle more _vino blanco_," says the Peruvian, pouring out another glass. "Don't you understand?" I say hotly. "I want water--_Wasser_! _De l'eau--Aqua!_" The waiter starts at the last word and takes up a clay carafe. The Baron shakes his head and gives some brief command in Spanish. The servant looks sulky and puts down the bottle. "What do you mean?" I say, with still smarting tongue. "Is it Spanish etiquette to ask a lady to supper and then refuse her a glass of water?" "Madame," says the Peruvian quietly to Mrs. Steele, "no von here drink vater; it makes always fery seeck," and he signs to the servant to serve the next course. "I despise _vino blanco_," I say; "I'd as soon drink weak vinegar." Nevertheless I sip my second glass, as there is no prospect of anything else. A "moso" comes in with a big basket containing our purchases. I beckon him to bring it to me, and look among the limes for my precious plantain. "Senorita," says the Peruvian, breaking off a conversation with Mrs. Steele upon native dishes, "I haf here pineapple sairve vidth ice and sugar and vine; it is dthe most delicieux of all fruit. Allow me to raicommend you." And the waiter puts the tempting plate before me. "Thank you," I say, "but I am looking for my plantain. Will you have the boy find it, there are so many things in this basket?" A few words between the "moso" and the Baron, the latter smiles a little. "_Tres curieux_, dthat old voman forget to put in dthat plantain!" Mrs. Steele's amusement is most offensive. "My dear, you are in the power of the interpreter; you will find our friend less manageable on shore than on board the _San Miguel_."