It was a great relief to her to hear this: because she was terribly afraid for herself. She could never be sure, never be whole in her connection with Cipriano and Ramón. Yet she said, mocking slightly:
“Why should you be afraid for me?”
“Aren’t you sometimes afraid for yourself?” he asked.
“Never!” she said. “I’m absolutely sure about myself.”
They had been sitting in the garden of the Villa Aragon, under the poinsettia tree with the huge scarlet petal-leaves, like soft red quill feathers. The morning was becoming hot. The lake had gone still, with the fallen wind. Everything was still. Save the long scarlet of the poinsettia.
Christmas was coming! The poinsettia reminded Kate of it.
Christmas! Holly-berries! England! Presents! Food!—If she hurried, she could be in England for Christmas. It