Evening
A full day. Red Cross work from ten till twelve, then home to change—not only my dress, but the scent that hung round me—to go to Chapultepec. Sir C. and Cavendish, somewhat dimmed by being in plain clothes, drove up to the restaurant just as I was getting out of the motor, the Belgian minister, Mr. Percival, and the Cardens coming a few minutes later. We had espied Huerta’s auto in the Park, and I had the bold idea of getting the President for lunch, knowing it would render things spicy for Sir C. Heaven was watching over me, however, for instead of stopping at the restaurant for one of the famous copitas, Huerta passed through the Park, disappearing in the direction of Popotla.
It was ideal lunching on the veranda, bathed in the warm, scented air, talking of many things, and climes, with the easy exchange of thoughts that is the pleasure of people of the world. Sir C. said that he had spent most of his time changing his clothes, since his arrival, having come with nothing between full uniform and morning coat. He had been to the Foreign Office that morning in uniform, into civilian for lunch, was to dress at three for some sort of function at the Palace, and then change to visit the castle of Chapultepec and the cadet school attached. He had accomplished all these labors when at six we met again at Madame Simon’s for bridge. His roving seaman’s eye lighted up and seemed very appreciative of the bevy of handsome young women he found there. Again, with “Cradock’s luck,” he raked the shekels in. He said the visit to Chapultepec and the cadet school was a most thorough proceeding, and that he was spared no crack or cranny of the school, of which, however, the Mexicans are justly proud.
There is a reception at the Legation for the English colony to-night, and to-morrow early he descends to the sea. Sir C. has distinguished himself in many climes and will, I imagine, get a bit restless at Vera Cruz, waiting for something to happen. He directed the British, American, Japanese, and Italian forces for the relief of Tientsin. He has yet to learn that no outside force can hurry events in Latin America. They happen from their own momentum, in their own way. I have an idea he is a full-fledged Huertista, but, oh! so nice about it all. He is ranking officer to Admiral Fletcher, which might, at any moment, make complications. How can Britannia rule the waves in the sacred territorial waters of the Monroe doctrine? But it is always the same. On all international occasions our admirals find themselves outranked, even by navies of inferior powers. The highest rank our officers on active duty can attain is rear-admiral. They bring up the rear in more senses than one, while all other forces have vice-admirals and admirals available for any little trips that seem expedient.