In the moist earth beside the bench Anthony saw the print of a dainty boot, no longer than his palm, and he promptly fell into a rhapsody.  What tiny hands and feet she had, to be sure, and such a sweetly melancholy face!  Yet she was anything but grave and gloomy.  Why, the sunlight dancing on that waterfall was no more mischievous and merry than she.  The slight suggestion of sadness she conveyed was but the shadow of the tropic mystery or the afterglow of the tragedy that had played so large a part in this country’s history.  The fact that she was half American perhaps accounted for her daring, yet, whatever the other strain, it could not be ignoble.  Mrs. Cortlandt’s figure of the silver threads in a rotting altar-cloth recurred to him with peculiar force.

But why didn’t she come?  A sudden apprehension overtook him, which grew and grew as the afternoon wore away.

It was a very miserable young man who wandered out through the fragrant path, as the first evening shadows settled, and bent his dejected steps toward the city.  Evidently something had occurred to prevent her keeping her tryst, but he determined to return on the morrow, and then if she did not come to follow that other path right up to the house, where he would risk everything for a word with her.  He wondered if she had stayed away purposely to test him, and the thought gave him a thrill.  If so, she would soon learn that he was in earnest; she would find him waiting there every afternoon and—­after all, why confine himself to the afternoon when she was just as likely to appear in the morning?  He resolved to go hunting earlier hereafter, and give the whole day to it.  Meanwhile, he would make cautious inquiries.

It was considerably after dark when he reached the hotel, and his friends had dined; but he encountered Mr. Cortlandt later.  If Edith’s husband suspected anything of what had occurred a night or two ago, his countenance gave no sign of it.  For some reason or other, Kirk had not been troubled in the slightest by the thought that Cortlandt might be told.  He could not imagine Edith making him the confidant of her outraged feelings.  Besides, would such a strangely impassive person resent any little indiscretion in which his wife might choose to indulge?  Kirk did not know—­the man was a puzzle to him.

Cortlandt’s voice was thoroughly non-committal as he inquired: 

“Where have you been keeping yourself?”

“I’ve been hunting, to kill time.”

“Any luck?”

“No, none at all.  I started too late, I guess.”

“By-the-way,” continued the other, “your friend Allan has been besieging Edith, imploring her to use her influence to get him a position.  He has set his heart upon going to work with you.”

“He is becoming a positive nuisance.  I can’t get rid of him.”

“I never saw such hero-worship.”

“Oh, all niggers are hysterical.”

“Let me give you a bit of advice, Anthony.  Remember there are no ‘niggers’ and ‘whites’ in this country—­they are both about equal.  The President of the republic is a black man, and a very good one, too.”