Still, the pretty ones do not brighten; they walk up and down, eyeing askance the quiet boarders who look so contented over their children and worsted-work, and wondering in what part of the world they have taken the precaution to leave their souls.  Unpacking is then begun, with rather a flinging of the things about, interspersed with little peppery hints as to discomfort and dulness, and dejected stage-sighs, intended for hearing.  But this cannot go on,—­the thermometer is at 78 degrees in the shade,—­an intense and contagious stillness reigns through the house,—­some good genius waves a bunch of poppies near those little fretful faces, for which a frown is rather heavy artillery.  The balmy breath of sleep blows off the lightly-traced furrows, and, after a dreamy hour or two, all is bright, smooth, and freshly dressed, as a husband could wish it.  The dinner proves not intolerable, and after it we sit on the piazza.  A refreshing breeze springs up, and presently the tide of the afternoon drive sets in from the city.  The volantes dash by, with silver-studded harnesses, and postilions black and booted; within sit the pretty Senoritas, in twos and threes.  They are attired mostly in muslins, with bare necks and arms; bonnets they know not,—­their heads are dressed with flowers, or with jewelled pins.  Their faces are whitened, we know, with powder, but in the distance the effect is pleasing.  Their dark eyes are vigilant; they know a lover when they see him.  But there is no twilight in these parts, and the curtain of the dark falls upon the scene as suddenly as the screen of the theatre upon the denouement of the tragedy.  Then comes a cup of truly infernal tea, the mastication of a stale roll, with butter, also stale,—­then, more sitting on the piazza,—­then, retirement, and a wild hunt after mosquitoes,—­and so ends the first day at Woolcut’s, on the Cerro.

HAVANA.  THE HOTELS.

“Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?” Yes, truly, if you can get it, Jack Falstaff; but it is one thing to pay for comfort, and another thing to have it.  You certainly pay for it, in Havana; for the $3 or $3.50 per diem, which is your simplest hotel-charge there, should, in any civilized part of the world, give you a creditable apartment, clean linen, and all reasonable diet.  What it does give, the travelling public may like to learn.

Can Grande has left Woolcut’s.  The first dinner did not please him,—­the cup of tea, with only bread, exasperated,—­and the second breakfast, greasy, peppery, and incongruous, finished his disgust; so he asked for his bill, packed his trunk, called the hotel detestable, and went.