four years ago, a little more, but her hair was dark brown. She was splendidly dressed and such a wonderful horsewoman. The first time I saw her I felt as they had made me feel at the convent. I wanted to hide from her. She was so grand a lady, and I came from slaves.”
She paused hesitatingly and stared down at her own tiny feet.
“Pardon me interrupting you, Mrs. Camber,” I said, “but can you tell me in what way these two are related?”
She looked up with her naïve smile.
“I can tell you, yes. A cousin of Señor Menendez married a sister of Madame de Stämer.”
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, “a very remote kinship.”
“It was in this way they met, in Paris, I think, and”—she raised her hands expressively—“she came with him to the West Indies, although it was during the great war. I think she loved him more than her soul, and me—me she hated. As Señor Menendez dismounted from his horse in front of the house he saw me.”
She sighed and ceased speaking again. Then:
“That very night,” she continued, “he began. Do you know? I was trying to escape from him when Madame de Stämer found us. She called me a shameful name, and my father, who heard it, ordered her out of the house. Señor Menendez spoke sharply, and my father struck him.”
She paused once more, biting her lip agitatedly, but presently proceeded:
“Do you know what they are like, the Spanish, when their blood is hot? Señor Menendez had a revolver, but my father knocked it from his grasp. Then they
