_Don_ Louis pressed us to dine with him that evening at seven o’clock, having first politely inquired of my Spanish-speaking friends whether “_El Señor de Estados Unidos tiene dinero?_” (Does the gentleman from the United States possess money?) My friends replied, “_Si, Si, Señor, mucho dinero_,” (“Yes, yes, sir, much money;”) so we were asked to dine! Probably, of all people upon this planet none are more expert in extracting the _dinero_ from the American pocket than are the gracious Latins of the south. If you have money, the laws open wide their gates, and all government officials pat you on the back, meanwhile filching just a little from your unsuspecting pocket. Even the _Padre_ and the Archbishop, for the proper toll of gold, will shove you through the quicker to the gates of Paradise.
At seven o’clock it was dark; the stars glowed big; the moon was not yet up. The city was ablaze with electric lights. On this second visit we did not go to the office door, but entered the wide-arched entrance for man and beast. We came into the usual square _patio_, where waters plashed and tropical plants, many of them in flower, were set about in pots. _Don_ Louis greeted us as we entered. He shook hands twice all round. He led us across the court to the far side and into the dining room, a stone and cement-walled chamber with stone-flagged floor, wholly without adornments. No cloth covered the plain wooden table. There were wooden benches along the wall on either side. He introduced us to his wife, _Doña_ Maria, and a little grandson of twelve years. The _Doña_ was tall, for a Mexican woman, and stout. Her hair was white, parted in the middle and brushed smoothly back from her forehead. She wore a light muslin of white. She displayed no jewels, although undoubtedly possessing them. _Don_ Louis wore an immense diamond on his left middle finger, while a heavy gold chain about his neck secured a big gold watch.
Our hostess could speak no English, but our host said he could read it and understood it “spoken very slow, a leetel;” “but the grandson,” he said, “had a tutor who was teaching him English,--a young man who had lived six months in Texas at San Antonio and there mastered the northern tongue!” The meal was simple. A very good soup, redolent of garlic and peppers, was followed with boiled rice and stewed chicken, a _dulce_, some really delicious preserved guavas, and cheese. Then cups of hot water and the small pot of coffee essence were set before us, and we “coffeed” the water to suit our taste. Just when I presumed we were at an end, a servant entered and set before each of us a soup plate of _frijoles_, with a big spoon. No Mexican considers a dinner properly concluded without _frijoles_. I had heard of _frijoles_. I had been told that _tortillas_ and _frijoles_ were the staff of Mexican life. Now the _frijoles_ were before me. What were they? My plate contained nothing but large black beans floating in a thin soup. Perhaps the water should have been poured off, I do not know, but the beans floated and the liquor was thin. And _Don_ Louis ladled them into his mouth with evident relish! _Vivan frijoles!_