"Broken his heart? Ah, my dear, he has probably said that to a dozen. It's a tough article, the masculine heart, and the kind of women who strain it most are----" "Bewildering beauties, such as _you_ were at twenty! And I may rest in my defects with an easy conscience. Thank you!" "That was not what I was going to say." In my heart I knew it was what she was thinking. CHAPTER VII [Illustration: Chapter Seven] THE INCA EYE Mr. and Mrs. Dalton give us a beautiful Spanish-French dinner in a private room of the Gran Hotel where they live. Mrs. Dalton is palpably delighted with the Baron de Bach. He is unusually reserved, but gravity sits well on him, and, as I see him crossing swords with this clever woman of the world, I find my admiration growing. He seems not to see me all through dinner, and, like the stupid young person I am, I fall to regretting that by the side of our brilliant, travelled hostess I must seem provincial and dull. I am not sorry when, shortly after dinner, Mrs. Steele, regretting we have to leave so early the following day, remembers a friend she must see that night, and we take our leave. "Senorita look fery tire--she better stay in dthe hotel. I vill escort you, Madame, vidth plaisir." We stop a moment on the stairs. "Oh, no! I especially want Blanche to see the interior of a handsome native house. You're not too tired, are you, dear?" "No," I say, "I'll go." "She vould zay dthat if she die. You stay here, Senorita; Madame Steele be not long." The idea flits across my mind he has some reason of his own for not wanting me to go; but I've no notion of being left alone. "No, I'll go with you, Mrs. Steele." "After I escort Madame, I go to dthe photographic gallery; I buy you all dthose pictures ve haf not time to get dthis afternoon. I send dthem to your room; you vill not be lonely." "Oh, why can't we all go to the gallery? I do so want a collection of views. I want nothing else so much!" I plead. It ends by our driving to Casa 47, in a wide street opposite the public gardens. The Baron dismisses the coachman, telling him to come back in a couple of hours, and I drop the iron knocker on the massive door. A native servant draws the bolts, and our interpreter asks for "Senora Baldwin." We follow the picturesque little maid through a tiled vestibule into a starlight patio. The usual ground veranda encloses this fragrant court, the various rooms opening on it. We are ushered into one brilliantly lit and luxuriously furnished, and the hostess and her sister make us welcome. The French consul is there with his secretary, and the conversation is mostly in their tongue. Mrs. Baldwin shows us an album of enchanting views of Guatemala and the abandoned city of Antigua, so beautifully situated and so earthquake-cursed. "More than ever," says Mrs. Steele, "I regret we did not omit something else, and take time to get photographs." "It's not too late," our hostess says.