er . . . and yet I am not sure.
. . . Let me try, however. . . . It always seems to me with you
English, you Americans, you white-skinned men--with all the ones I
have known--that the fault is not all mine when I find you alike just
at first; that every one of you ought to be a man quite different
from all other men; that you, of your race--yes, every one--were
meant for something you have missed--were meant to be--Oh, what is
the word?"

"'Distinguished?'" suggested Farrell, standing up. "I never was
that, Santa--though, back in England, at one time, I had a notion to
make some sort of a mark."

Santa let the neck of the guitar fall back against her breast and
clasped her hands suddenly. "Yes, that is it;--to make your mark!
Every woman who loves a man wants him to make his mark somehow,
somewhere. . . . I cannot tell you why: but it is so."

Farrell took a turn on the veranda. "My dear," he said tenderly,
coming back and halting before her, "do you realise that I am fifty
years old?"

She pressed her palms over her eyes. "You keep telling me that, and
it hurts! Besides, you grow younger every day . . . and--and I
cannot bear to hear you say it!" She lowered her hands and smiled
up, but through tears.

"The men who find their way to San Ramon from my country or from the
States," he went on, picking up the binoculars absently while his
eyes sought the sky-line, "do not come in any hope of making their
mark--not even plantation-inspectors." Farrell fumbled with the
screw, adjusting the focus. "If that is why we are going to
Sydney--"

"Whatever happens," declared Santa, "I will love you better anywhere
than in San Ramon: and I have loved you well enough here! The men
who come to San Ramon--pah! this for them!" She thrummed an air--
_La Camisa de la Lola_--on the guitar and broke off with another
small sound of scorn from her throat. "_That's_ what suits them, and
what all of them are worth!"

She brushed the strings again: and if Farrell made any sound at all,
the buzz of them covered it. He had brought the glasses to bear on
the beach.

Santa started to thrum on the lower strings. Farrell swung about
suddenly, set the glasses down, and walked back into the dismantled
house.

Now so far I have evidence for all I'm telling you. From this point
for thirty seconds or so, I am going to guess what happened.
Santa went on thrumming. She heard his footsteps on the bare floor
as he went through the