The car, parked at the roadside, had been deserted for a little sylvan dell near by, through which a stream of crystal water splashed on its way down the mountain side. The wild hibiscus grew here—clusters of glorious, brilliant red against the luxuriant green of the surrounding tropical foliage. The trees arched overhead; through the interstices the sunlight came in tiny shafts, as though timorously and with diffidence to beg a rôle in the artistry of the cool and shady nook. Scented growth filled the air with fragrance—languorous odours, rare perfumes that invaded the senses dreamily.
Donald Lane lay on his back, his hands clasped behind his head. His eyes were fixed on Anne, who sat slightly in front of him, tossing pebbles into the stream. He could gaze his fill unobtrusively. It was
