Pale and trembling and humiliated, Blanch pulled herself together with an effort and stood for some time as one dazed where the Captain had left her. Then, she remembered, she had smiled and bowed absently to the men and women in the patio on the way back to her room, where she flung herself down upon the couch in a frenzy, burying her face in the cushions; her frame shaking with passionate, convulsive sobs as she writhed in paroxysms of untold grief and pain.

He had refused her, dared to refuse her—her! She had failed! Was this, then, the end, the reward for righteous ambition, conscientious endeavor? For years she had worked and schemed for the realization of her ideal, and this was the end. How proud she always had been of him, and how perfectly her beauty and brilliancy would have crowned his career—their lives! And now, when ambition's goal was attained, that rare cup of earthly joys of which few men drink, had been rudely dashed from her lips.

So this was the reward that had been reserved for her who had been endowed with wealth and position, and who was the fairest and best this civilization could produce? Fate had been kind to her merely in order that she might realize to the utmost the bitterness and emptiness of life.

Life—what did it mean, what did it hold for her now? She knew as well as Captain Forest did that, strong though she was, she was nevertheless too weak to share with him the life he had chosen. Civilization and culture had prepared her for everything but that; the one vital essential which nature alone can give to man was lacking. After all she was but a poor, helpless creature, incapable of meeting and being satisfied with the simple demands occasioned by the natural conditions of man's surroundings. Neither could she return to the old life again, now that it was shorn of its vital interest, and year after year cast her bread upon the waters in the uncertain pursuit of happiness, only to reap the harvest of dead-sea fruit that is ever borne in on the shallow tides of worldliness.

She recognized in herself the victim of a system of lies and frauds, a world of artificiality, deceit and tawdry tinsel, a life which, in spite of the good it contains, makes weaklings of men. Thanks to her bringing-up, the sunland of love, that valley of the earthly paradise, was closed to her forever. She cursed this world of hypocrisy and deception and all it contained—her friends and acquaintances and the memory of her father and mother, who unabashed, had perverted the pure, unsullied gaze of the child, directed its steps in the paths trodden by its degenerate forefathers, taught it to regard falsehood in the light of truth.

Let the world cry out in protest—say they did their best. The world lies, and knows it lies. They did not do their best. They followed the dictates of selfishness, despicable, inherent weakness. But why had this come to her who had been a willing instrument, who had lent herself to the dictates of this world and who, of all others, was the most fit to grace it?

"I curse you—curse you!" she cried aloud, springing to her feet in a fresh paroxysm and frenzy, flinging her clenched hands aloft, her features livid with rage. But what did her mingled transports of grief and pain and anger avail her? There was no redress, no appeal from the decision of destiny. It was fate, and she had been singled out for the sacrifice. Again she cried out in agony of heart and soul. Had she been strong like the other woman, he must have loved her—his love never could have died!

The thought of Chiquita brought her to herself in a measure, and as she slowly began to pace the floor, Don Felipe's words came back to her. If she did not possess Jack, no other woman should. Besides, she knew what he did not know—that even if he wished to, he could not marry Chiquita. A grim smile flitted across her countenance as the knowledge of this fact flashed through her mind, the only ray of light in the chaos into which she had been plunged by that misguided, luckless decision on her part—her refusal to follow the Captain while he was still hers.

She knew it was purely revenge that had prompted Don Felipe to run her rival's secret to earth, and she despised him for it. It was not so with her—the thought of revenge had not entered into her calculations. But neither Chiquita nor the Captain would escape. It was justice, nothing more nor less; for they, too, like her, stood before the tribunal of destiny and must bow to its decrees the same as she had been forced to bow to them. Yes, she would give the signal to Don Felipe that night; it was the only right thing to do.

She was calmer now, and when Rosita knocked lightly at her door and entered the room to assist her in dressing for the evening, no one would have suspected the ache at her heart or the storm-swept soul which her calm exterior concealed.