than breakfast, the food still leaves much to the imagination.

I wish you could see this Mrs. Wilson, Hal. You would change a
whole lot of your ideas. She is a thoroughbred, sure enough, and
of course some of her beauty is the result of the exquisite care
about which you and I--still from our Andean pinnacle--used to
rant. But the fact is, she is more than that. She has fire, and
pluck, no end. If you could have seen her this morning, standing
in front of a cold kitchen range, determined to conquer it, and
had seen the tilt of her chin when I offered to take over the
cooking--you needn't grin; I can cook, and you know it--you would
understand what I mean. It was so clear that she was paralyzed
with fright at the idea of getting breakfast, and equally clear
that she meant to do it. By the way, I have learned that her name
was McNair before she married this would-be artist, Wilson, and
that she is a daughter of the McNair who financed the Callao
branch!

I have not met the others so intimately. There are two sisters
named Mercer, inclined to be noisy--they are playing roulette in
the next room now. One is small and dark, almost Hebraic in type,
named Leila and called Lollie. The other, larger, very blonde and
languishing, and with a decided preference for masculine society,
even, saving the mark, mine! Dallas Brown's wife, good looking,
smokes cigarettes when I am not around--they all do, except Mrs.
Wilson.

Then there is a maiden aunt, who is ill today with grippe and
excitement, and a Miss Knowles, who came for a moment last night
to see Mrs. Wilson, was caught in the quarantine (see papers),