And, after all, she nearly had her way.
For a month it was "just one port after another." Mazatlan, San
Bias, Manzanillo, San Salvador, Panama City--at each of these we
touched, and visited sometimes an hour, sometimes two or three
days. Le Mire was loading the yacht with all sorts of curious
relics. Ugly or beautiful, useful or worthless, genuine or faked,
it mattered not to her; if a thing suited her fancy she wanted
it--and got it.
At Guayaquil occurred the first collision of wills. It was our
second evening in port. We were dining on the deck of the yacht,
with half a dozen South American generals and admirals as guests.
Toward the end of the dinner Le Mire suddenly became silent and
remained for some minutes lost in thought; then, suddenly, she
turned to the bundle of gold lace at her side with a question:
"Where is Guayaquil?"
He stared at her in amazement.
"It is there, senora," he said finally, pointing to the shore
lined with twinkling lights.
"I know, I know," said Le Mire impatiently; "but where is it? In
what country?"
The poor fellow, too surprised to be offended, stammered the name
of his native land between gasps, while Harry and I had all we
could do to keep from bursting into laughter.
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