Then he scrambled up with the bags.
The man in white trousers, and a mozo appeared. It was the hotel manager. Kate paid the boatman.
“Adios, Señorita!” he said with a smile. “May you go with Quetzalcoatl.”
“Yes!” she cried. “Goodbye!”
They went up the slope between the tattered bananas, whose ragged leaves were making a hushed, distant patter in the breeze. The green fruit curved out its bristly-soft bunch, the purple flower-bud depending stiffly.
The German manager came to talk to them: a young man of about forty, with his blue eyes going opaque and stony behind his spectacles, though the centres were keen. Evidently a German who had been many years out in Mexico—out in the lonely places. The rather stiff look, the slight look of fear in the soul—not physical fear—and the look of defeat, characteristic of the European