I had gone, with my writing things, to heap pillows on the lawn beneath that curious tropical "Sabre" tree, which is entirely covered with thick, wicked spikes, magnified and dangerous thorns. This tree wears smooth with age, they say--like a number of human beings, perhaps!--and the natives hold it in superst.i.tious awe, believing it to be the tree which formed the Cross. They will not cut one down or in any way deface it.

Lying p.r.o.ne, elbows propped on my gay cushion, my chin in my hands, I contemplated the last verse I had made, considered a t.i.tle, decided on "Ultimus," and then, weighting the sheet with a round, yellow orange, I rolled over on my back, and crossing my arms beneath my head looked up at the sky.

It was a wonderful morning, cloudless, perfect, not too oppressively warm. And it was the first breathing spell I had had in several days.

The business of having as a house guest an eligible young bachelor, of charm and astonishing vitality, was a little wearing. And I was glad when the day came on which Wright concluded that an hour or so in the saddle, with Bill as escort would be both beneficial to his const.i.tution and instructive mentally.

Quite aside from the arduous task of exhibiting Havana and environs to a tireless young man, the effort of "keeping up appearances" had really begun to tell on me. Wright was particularly keen-sighted, and I more than once fancied that he had caught a glimpse of the black waters under the thin verbal ice upon which Bill and I so carelessly skated.

My husband and I had not been alone together since the arrival of his friend. I had seen to that. When we were not in Havana, or at the country club, there were people at the "Palms." And to insure perfect satisfaction for everyone concerned, I had asked Mercedes Howells to bring a bag, and spend a few days in the country. She had accepted with alacrity, and there remained to me but a few hours of comparative peace before she descended upon the household.

I looked across at the mountains: purple blue they were, clear-cut against a marvelous sky. The air was very still. I could hear Arthur shrieking from the house. He had learned a number of fine, full-bodied Cuban-Spanish oaths lately, and was employing them in his most wheedling manner on Nora.

The ox-carts went by on the road below. A bird swayed on the bourganvilla vine and sang. Down in the palm-grove I saw the flick of a peac.o.c.k tail, and the orchids, themselves like lavender birds, in the distance, flowering from the smooth palm trunks.

My eyes closed and I slept.

When I awoke, someone was sitting cross-legged beside me, whistling "Sally in our Alley."

I saw puttees and riding breeches, a hand holding a cigarette, and finally a blonde countenance which was turned upward to the sky.

"h.e.l.lo," I said. "How long have you been here?"

"Hours," he answered. "Mavis Denton, you talk in your sleep, you do, somethin' awful!"

I sat up abruptly.

"What did I say?" I demanded.

"First you snored some--"

"I don't snore!"

"You do,--Bill told me so. 'Wright,' he says to me, 'don't you never marry a girl who snores.'"

There was no use arguing with Wright in a silly mood.

"Go on," I said, resigned to heaven alone knew what eccentricities of speech and disclosure.

"I'm going. First you snores a bit, as I remarked before I was so rudely interrupted. Who raised you, anyway, Mavis? Don't you know little girls must never contradict, interrupt, or otherwise distract old gentlemen? Well, after the snore--musical, it was--'Bill!' you says, entreating-like--'Bill,' you says, right out loud. And then, just like a movie heroine, 'Never!' you shouts, 'Never!', and you clinched your hands and ground your teeth as no lady had oughter!"

"I never heard of anything so silly," I said, "You're making it all up!"

Wright laughed.

"I'm not, truly," he said, "although perhaps I have rendered it in a slightly more lurid manner than you did. But it's true, and I'm going to ask Bill what it's all about, so there!"

"Don't you dare!" I said.

"All right, I won't, if you will promise me never to blush again like you have been doing for the last three minutes. It is very disturbing, to a struggling poet who has long sought fresher similes for Dawn and all that sort of thing. You provided the simile, all right, but who in time could rhyme with Mavis?"

At the mention of poetry, my hand unconsciously went toward the sheet of paper beside me. The orange rolled away and the wind provokingly caught the paper and fluttered it.

"What's this?" said the audacious youth beside me. "Ha! I see Bill's fine Italian hand in this--"

He picked up the paper, regardless of my pleas, and scanned it with a practised eye.

"Your writing. Amanuensis now, eh? Hm--that doesn't sound like Bill.

Wait a moment, I never saw such illegible calligraphy. At least one member of a doctor's family ought to write so a fellow can read it--"

He laid the paper down.

"Bill didn't write that," he said, suddenly serious, "who did? You, Mavis?"

I nodded.

"Why, you little wretch," he cried out, delightedly. "Bill never told me a word--"

"He doesn't know," I said. "No-one knows. Please don't tell him. I had thought of some day showing what I had done to Uncle John Denton. But I've decided not to, now. I didn't mean anyone to know--"

Wright picked up the paper and read the verse again. I watched him, in a curious mental state. Part of me resented bitterly that even so good a friend should have dragged out to the revealing light of day, my wistful secret of song: and yet, another part of me, back in my brain, said dully, "It really doesn't matter--now."

"I'm a better critic than I am a poet," said Wright, after a time. "I think you have a gift, Mavis. This," he flicked the paper with a thumb and finger, "has grace and delicacy. It's not good, of course,--not according to--well, say, Bill's standards,--but it has promise. I won't tell Bill, if you'd rather not, although I think he would help you a great deal--and I'm sure he'd go quite out of his head with excitement. May I see, sometime, anything else you have? Only, for the love of Mike, what's the idea of being so morbid? Haven't you happier things to write about, child?"

I put my hand over his,

"Sure you won't tell?" I begged.

"I swear, by all the Muses," he replied, "Bill shall never know, from me."

"Know what?" asked Bill, appearing disconcertingly around the tree.

I s.n.a.t.c.hed my hand from Wright's and felt myself grow scarlet. We must both have looked guilty, for Wright's guileless blonde face reflected my embarra.s.sment.

"Secret!" said Wright, firmly.

"Oh, I see."

Bill glanced from one to the other of us, to the paper in Wright's hand, and then considerately walked off.

"Lunch is ready," he remarked, over his shoulder. "Been calling you for about ten minutes."

Wright helped me to my feet.

"Close call," he said.

"Hush!" I said, for my husband was still within ear-shot.