of San Pablo, remain perpetually faithful to the memory of an increasingly remote ideal; she needed, most desperately, to hear from some one—any one that she was still desirable, still to be loved even for a little while.
She sat, in her thin nightgown, at the open window of her bedroom, fanning herself, endeavoring in vain to create an illusion of coolness. Closing her eyes, she tried once more to visualize Guy, but she could not succeed. In this primitive and tropical town, where the damp evil heat steamed as though from a witch's cauldron, breeding fever, and inertia, and madness, there was no place for her English lover, and all those qualities that had most endeared him to her—his youth, his devotion, his gallant gaiety, at once became the characteristics of one who was so intangible as to have no existence whatsoever outside her own brain. For the first time since she had known him, her memories could in no way evoke his presence; even the sweet pain of visualizing his face was abruptly denied to her; suddenly, inexplicably, she could not imagine what he looked like; she would not, she thought, have recognized him had he suddenly appeared to her in all the beauty of his young manhood. She knew only that he was tall and fair, and that he had loved her, and it was not enough.
For too long she had starved herself on romantic memories; now, in the dusty heat of this unspeakable town, she knew that memories were not enough, since even they had failed her, and so she longed with a sense of positive
rebellion for Rosa's lover.
Years ago, many, many years ago, she had discovered Borek, engaged him, praised him, trained him, trusted him. 'if any one had a claim upon him, assuredly that person was herself. But Borek had no desire to be claimed by Varsovina, and had made his reluctance for such diversions only too clear. Borek was fascinated by the