s, like himself, an American
and, though absurdly young, a widow. In the States she would have been
called an extremely pretty girl. In a community where the few dozen
white women had wilted and faded in the fierce sun of the equator, and
where the rest of the women were jet black except their teeth, which
were dyed an alluring purple, Polly Adair was as beautiful as a June
morning. At least, so Hemingway thought the first time he saw her, and
each succeeding time he thought her more beautiful, more lovely, more
to be loved.

He met her, three days after his arrival, at the residence of the
British agent and consul-general, where Lady Firth was giving tea to
the six nurses from the English hospital and to all the other
respectable members of Zanzibar society.

"My husband's typist," said her ladyship as she helped Hemingway to
tea, "is a copatriot of yours. She's such a nice gell; not a bit like
an American. I don't know what I'd do in this awful place without her.
Promise me," she begged tragically, "you will not ask her to marry you."

Unconscious of his fate, Hemingway promised.

"Because all the men do," sighed Lady Firth, "and I never know what
morning one of the wretches won't carry her off to a home of her own.
And then what would become of me? Men are so selfish! If you must fall
in love," suggested her ladyship, "promise me you will fall in love
with"--she paused innocently and raised baby-blue eyes, in a baby-like
stare--"with some one else."

Again Hemingway promised. He bowed gallantly. "That will be quite
easy," he said.

Her ladyship smiled, but Hemingway did not see the smile. He was
looking past her at a girl from home, who came across the terrace
carrying in her hand a stenographer's note-book.

Lady Firth followed the direction of his eyes and saw the look in them.
She exclaimed with dismay:

"Already! Already he deserts me, even before the ink is dry on the
paper."

She drew the note-book from Mrs. Adair's fingers and dropped it under
the tea-table.

"Letters must wait, my child," she declared.

"But Sir George--" protested the girl.

"Sir George must wait, too," continued his wife; "the Foreign Office
must wait, the British Empire must wait until you have had your tea."

The girl laughed helplessly. As though assured her fellow countryman
would comprehend, she turned to him.

"They're so exactly like what you want them to be," she said--"I mean
about their tea!"

Hemingw