felt so safe, so familiar, so normal, the thought of Christmas at home, in England, with her mother. And all the exciting things she could tell to the people at home! And all the exciting gossip she could hear! In the distance, it looked very attractive.—She still had a qualm as to what the actual return would be like.
“One can have too much of a good thing,” she said to Ramón.
“What good thing in particular?” he asked her.
“Oh—Quetzalcoatl and all that!” she said. “One can have too much of it.”
“It may be,” he said, rising and going quietly away; so quietly, he was gone before she knew. And when she realised he had gone like that, she flushed with anger. But she sat on under the poinsettia tree, in