"This is a sunrise I think we shall never forget," says Mrs. Steele with grave enjoyment. The Baron and I say nothing. The air blows cool and fresh, and we skirt the rugged beach, close to the high-piled rocks at the water's edge, till we come to a cocoa grove sheltering a few thatched cottages. The Baron gives some direction to the boatman, and we are moored in shallow water. The Mexican jumps out of the boat and disappears in the grove. The water is so clear we have been able to see the bottom for a long time, and now the Baron shows me how to use a boathook in spearing the red starfish. We succeed in bringing up several, but they turn brown when out of the water and are said to sting. So we throw them back and turn to hear the Indian water-women singing and laughing as they follow the winding, rugged path half way up the heights. The red-brown feet and ankles must be as strong as they are shapely; the arms holding aloft the water jars are well moulded and taper finely to the wrist; splendid freedom is in every motion and a grace their fairer sisters have forgotten. I see the admiration in Baron de Bach's face. "You like that type?" I ask. "It ees part of dthe landscape," he answers; "ve like it in dthe picture. Ve put more deeferent vomans in our hearts and homes." "H'm!" coughs Mrs. Steele. "My dear, the boatman is coming back with a huge bunch of cocoanuts." "Yes," the Baron says, "I dthought you vould like to taste dthe milk." The Mexican rolls up his white trousers and wades back to the boat. He pulls his naked knife out of his sash and begins to cut away the thick green rind of the nut. That done, the Baron takes it from him and shows us the three eyes at one end where the fibre is soft. When the sharp point of the knife is inserted the liquid within spurts up into the Baron's face. "Oh!" he says, with a comical look of dismay, "ve haf no cup; ve must drink like dthe natives," and he saws away an opening and hands the cocoanut to Mrs. Steele. She puts her lips to the shell and tastes a drop with dainty distrust. "Oh, Madame, it ees fery gude--you vill like it if you drink more!" But Mrs. Steele passes it on to me. The first sip is so cool and refreshing I greedily tip the shell to take a long draught, and the liquid runs down both sides of my mouth into my lap. The Baron insists there is an art in cocoanut tippling. "You must hold dthe mout' zo--" and he illustrates, "and dthe cocoa zo." He puts it cautiously to his lips. "Now!" he says, after taking a sip, "you try!" With childish good faith I take the clumsy nut, but as I lift it to drink I notice a covert gleam of satisfaction in the Peruvian's eyes, and I realise in a flash that the cocoa shell is becoming a sort of a loving-cup--for there was but one little place cut for drinking where first I essayed the draught and then the Baron.