She was always handsome, but she was beautiful as she came out into the sunset gold which seemed meant for her, as stage lights are turned on for the heroine of a play; and there was something about Carmen which suggested strong drama.  Even the setting in which she framed herself was like an ideal scene for a first act.

The house was not very old, and not really Spanish, but it had been designed by an architect who knew Carmen, with the purpose of giving a Spanish effect.  He had known exactly the sort of background to suit her, a background as expensive as picturesque; a millionaire husband had paid for it.  There were many verandas and pergolas, but this immense out-of-doors room had wide archways instead of pillars, curtained with white and purple passion flowers; and the creamy stucco of the house-wall, and the ruddy Spanish tiles, which already looked mellow with age, were half hidden with climbing roses and grapevines.

Three shallow steps of pansy-coloured bricks went all the length of the gallery, descending to a terrace floored with the same brick, which held dim tints of purple, old rose, gray and yellow, almost like a faded Persian rug.

When Carmen had looked past the fountain across the lawn, down the path cut between pink oleanders, where the man she expected ought to appear, she trailed her white dress over terrace and grass to peer under the green roof of the bamboo forest.  It was like a temple with tall pillars of priceless jade that supported a roof of the same gray-green, starred in a vague pattern with the jewels of sunset.  Carmen did not see the beauty of the magic temple, though she was conscious of her own.  She hated to think that Nick Hilliard should keep her waiting, and there was cruelty in the clutch she made at a cluster of orange blossoms as she passed a long row of trees in terra-cotta pots on the terrace.  Under the bamboos she scattered a handful of creamy petals on the golden brown earth, and rubbed them into the ground with the point of her bronze shoe.  Then she held up her hand to her face, to smell the sweetness crushed out of the blossoms.

Why didn’t Nick come?

There was a short cut leading from the land which she had selected off her own immense ranch to sell to Nick Hilliard, and this way he sometimes took if he were in a hurry.  But she knew that he loved the path between the pink walls of oleander, and preferred to come by it, though it was longer.  He ought to have been with her at least ten minutes ago, for she had asked him to come early.  She had said in the letter which she gave old Simeon Harp to take to Nick, “This is your last night.  There are a great, great many things I want to talk to you about.”  But there was only one thing about which she wished Nick Hilliard to talk to her, and there were two reasons why she expected him to talk of it to-night.

One reason was, because he was going East, and planned to be gone a month, a dreadful plan which she feared and detested.  The second reason concerned the anniversary of a certain event.  Some people would have called the event a tragedy, but to Carmen it had made life worth living.  Other people’s tragedies were shadowy affairs to her, if she had not to suffer from them.