ut stained and battered
where the walls were not hidden by rank-growing creepers, convolvulus,
and Madeira vines. If the girl had read its description in some book--the
veranda, formed by the steep-sloping roof of the one-story building; the
patio, walled mysteriously in with a high, flower-draped barrier; the
long windows with green shutters--she would have imagined it to be
picturesque.

But it was not picturesque. It was only shabby and uninviting; at least
that was her impression when she arrived, toward evening, after a long,
jolting drive in a hired motor-car.

The paintless wooden balustrade and flooring of the veranda were broken.
So also were the faded green shutters. The patio was but a little square
of dust and stringy grass. A few dilapidated chairs stood about, homemade
looking chairs with concave seats of worn cowskin.

Inside the house there was little furniture, and what there was struck
Annesley as hideous. Nothing was whole. Everything was falling to pieces.
Illustrations cut out of newspapers were pasted on the dirty, whitewashed
walls.

The slatternly servant, who could speak only "Mex," had got no supper
ready. Knight would let Annesley do nothing, but he deftly helped the
woman to fry some eggs and make coffee. He tried to find dishes which
were not cracked or broken, and could not.

If he and Annesley had loved each other, or had even been friends, they
would have laughed and enjoyed the adventure. But Annesley had no heart
for laughter. She could only smile a frozen, polite little smile, and say
that it "did not matter. Everything would do very well." She would soon
get used to the place, and learn how to get on.

When she had to speak to Knight she called him "you." There was no other
name which she could bear to use. He had had too many names in the past!

As time went on, however, the girl surprised herself by not being able to
hate her home. She found mysteriously lovely colours in the yellow-gray
desert; shadows blue as lupines and purple as Russian violets; high
lights of shimmering, pale gold.

Spanish bayonets, straight and sharp as enchanted swords which had
magically flowered, lilied the desert stretches, and there were strange
red blossoms like drops of blood clinging to the points of long daggers.
Bird of Paradise plants were there, too, well named for their plumy
splendour of crimson, white, and yellow; and as the spring advanced the
China trees brought memories of English l