rmilion hibiscus and perfumed oleander,
past villa after villa embowered in purple, white, and crimson flowering
vines, and far away inland along the snowy road until, at the turn, a
gigantic banyan tree sprawled across the sky and the lilac-odour of
china-berry in bloom stole subtly through the aromatic confusion, pure,
sweet, refreshing in all its exquisite integrity.

"Calypso's own fragrance," he thought to himself--remembering the
intimate perfume of her hair and gown as she passed so near to him in
the lantern light when he had spoken without discretion.

And suddenly the reminiscent humour faded from his eyes and mouth as he
remembered what his aunt had said of this young girl; and, halting in
his tracks, he recalled what she herself had said; that the harmless
liberties another girl might venture to take with informality, armoured
in an assurance above common convention, she could not venture. And now
he knew why.... She had expected him to learn that she was an adopted
daughter; in the light of his new knowledge he understood that. No doubt
it was generally known. But the child had not expected him to know more
than that; and, her own knowledge of the hopeless truth, plainly enough,
was the key to that note of bitterness which he had detected at times,
and even spoken of--that curious maturity forced by unhappy
self-knowledge, that apathetic indifference stirred at moments to a
quick sensitive alertness almost resembling self-defence. She was aware
of her own story; that was certain. And the acid of that knowledge was
etching the designs of character upon a physical adolescence unprepared
for such biting reaction.

He was sorry he knew it, feeling ashamed of his own guiltless invasion
of the girl's privacy.

The only reparation possible was to forget it. Like an honourable
card-player who inadvertently sees his opponent's cards, he must play
his hand exactly as he would have in the beginning. And that, he
believed, would be perfectly simple.

Reassured he looked across the lawns toward the Cardross villa, a big
house of coquina cement, very beautiful in its pseudo-Spanish
architecture, red-tiled roofs, cool patias, arcades, and courts; the
formality of terrace, wall, and fountain charmingly disguised under a
riot of bloom and foliage.

The house stood farther away than he had imagined, for here the public
road ended abruptly in a winding hammock-trail, and to the east the
private drive of marl ran betwee