San Luis was a village of dirt streets, shacks, in which bands of pigs were left to find their nourishment in the garbage, and bands of children followed the foreigners asking for pennies. There was only a square, with a church of gold and blue mosaics, a café, a grocery, a garage. They took the car there and Doctor Palas translated for them. Lillian understood the palaver. It consisted, on the Indian side, in avoiding a direct answer to a simple question: "When will the car be ready?" As if a direct answer would bring down on them some fatal wrath, some superstitious punishment. It was impossible to say. Would they care to sit at the café while they waited? It was four o'clock. They sat there until six. Doctor Palas went back to the garage several times. In between he sought to continue with Lillian an intimate conversation in Spanish which his American friends would not understand. Without knowing the trend of meditation that Lillian had embarked on, on the theme of eyes, the eyes of her mother with which she had looked at herself, it was her eyes he praised, and her hair. Her eyes which were not her own when she looked at herself. But when she looked at others, she saw them with love, with compassion. She truly saw them. She saw the American couple, uncomfortable, not understanding this mixture of dirt and gaiety. The children took delight in chasing away the pigs and imitating their cries.

She saw young Doctor Palas not yet humanly connected with the poor as Doctor Hernandez was.

"Will you go dancing with me tonight?"

"If we get to Golconda," said Lillian, laughing. "I hope the Hungarian violinist will sweep them off their feet, so they will, not notice my absence."

At seven o'clock the streets were silent and it began to grow dark. The owner of the café was a fair-faced Spaniard with the manners of a courtier. He was helping them to pass the time. He had sent for a guitar player and a singer. He had fixed them a dinner.

When all of them realized they would not be leaving that night, that the car seemed to be losing vigor rather than regaining it, he came and talked to them with vehemence.

"San Luis looks quiet now, but it is only because they are dressing for New Year's Eve. Pretty soon they will all be out in the streets. There will be dancing. But the men will drink heavily. I advise you not to mix with them. The women know when to leave. Gradually they disappear with the children. The men continue drinking, and soon they begin to shoot at mirrors, at glasses, at bottles, at anything. Sometimes they shoot at each other. I entreat you, Señores y Señoras to stay right here. I have clean rooms I can let you have for the night. Stay in our rooms. I strongly advise you..."