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and out of her element as she stood there on the balcony overlooking the now dimly seen garden, with unaccustomed warmth lapping her almost sensuously about, for when she left England it was still only early spring, with typical early spring weather.
    She felt a lump rise in her throat as she recalled that other spring when she had come to the island, and been taken straight to the bungalow which was now occupied by a stranger—a pleasant stranger, and one who had known her father well, but nevertheless, a stranger.
    She felt the lump begin to hurt her throat as she tried to swallow. Before she left England it had seemed to her that Sansegovia was a paradise she must visit again, but now she was not so sure. Somewhere on Sansegovia her father lay buried, and she would have to get someone to drive her to see his grave—or perhaps, when she got to know her way about a bit, she could visit it for herself, and stand beside it in a little silence that would give him back to her for a moment, and leave a little tribute behind her of island flowers.
    It seemed strange to think that her father, after so many years of working for the islanders, wrapped up in their affairs, and with few interests apart from them, should have died here on this flower-scented isle, within sound of the blue seas that piled on the beaches.
    And yet, probably, that was the way he would have chosen it if he had been consulted.
    If only someone, apart from Dr. Barr, who probably genuinely regretted his demise, had said a few words to her about him when she arrived—said how much he had been appreciated during his lifetime, and that his memory meant something and would linger on in the island. The Senora Cortina would probably have uttered a little speech that would have warmed Jacqueline’s heart, if her frailty had not kept her confined to her room, because she belonged to an old order to whom such little correctnesses were still considered important. But her grandson had had other things to preoccupy him, and it had probably not occurred to him.
    As she looked downwards over the balcony rail she thought she caught a glimpse of a light frock in the gloom, and then voices reached her from the flagged path below her window. She realized that two people—a man and a woman—were returning to the house after strolling in that shadowy purple darkness, and following a gay trill of feminine laughter she recognized Martine’s attractive American accent. Martine was saying:
    “I really must go and get dressed, Dominic! You know there are people coming to dinner, and it always takes me ages to change.”
    Dominic answered, in rather a lazy voice, speaking in English
    because Martine, no doubt, had little or no Spanish:
    “Only old Senor Montez and his nephew. Rather dull for you, I’m afraid, but I thought it best to invite them.”
    “Because otherwise we should be in the ratio of three to one? Three women to one man!” with an appreciative laugh. “Oh, Dominic, darling, how appalling for you!”
    “Well, it wasn’t what I was thinking about,” he replied. “As a matter of fact—” And then they moved on, and their voices faded away with them, and Martine’s laugh as it floated back this time sounded soft and satisfied like the cooing of pigeons, and after that all that reached Jacqueline was the pleasing fragrance of cigarette-smoke which drifted upwards to her through the already fragrant night.
    When she went downstairs at last, after sitting for half-an-hour in her room because she hated the idea of being the first to make her appearance in public, especially when guests who were unknown to her were expected, the Senora Cortina’s companion, who was also Dominic’s aunt, was in the huge main salon, or reception room, to welcome her. She was a middle-aged, spinsterish-looking woman of nevertheless pleasant appearance, who answered to the denomination of Tia Lola, and she put out both her hands and took Jacqueline’s, and apologized for not