"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.
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