Lake Chapala a group of people were talking in the warm glow of a late November afternoon. Through a dip in the mountains upon the opposite shore the snowy peak of Colima svolcano glistened against the blue. Over the shining water the boats of Indian villagers, their big sails boomed out to catch light airs, trailed lazily homeward. The bushes below us were thick with roses. The walls of the villa were blotched with the passionate purple of bougainvillia. The prospect, the quiet, the sunny golden atmosphere, should have tuned our minds to thoughts of peace and beauty. Instead we were talking of social disorders, the wreck and ruin of civil war. I hope, when you get Home said one of the group, addressing me, that you will tell them about the Real Mexico I hope, for your own sake sneered another, that you will not. No one would believe you This was a business man who has lived in Mexico City for fifteen years. It squite extraordinary, he went on, how little is known about this country. The last time I was in New York a big man in Wall Street admitted to me that, until the revolution broke out, he had always thought of Mexico as being in South A merica.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)
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