hardly being forced to draw a check. She looked around the stuffy, low-ceilinged bedroom just before Dudley snapped off the light. What was she, Don Caesar de Cordoba's daughter, doing here beside this poor American in this matchbox of a room that could have been stuffed into one corner of her suite at the old rambling house near Buenos Aires? Then Dudley was kissing her good-night, her doubts were swept away, and in a sudden emotion of love and contrition she locked her arms around him and clung to him passionately, secretly asking forgiveness. He was too sleepy to notice that her eyes were wet and to inquire the reason.
On a blistering afternoon in July Carmelita sat, one small foot under her, on the divan near the open window trying to catch the little breath of air that was stirring there. From the asphalt below the heat was rising in shimmering waves. It was the climax of a week of record hot weather. Even in the flimsy negligée she was wearing, Carmelita was uncomfortable and unhappy. For several days now she and Dudley had been discussing going out of town for the rest of the season and he had tabooed the project for anything but his customary two weeks' vacation.
"Then we'll blow in a lot of money and I'll buy you a hotel on Cape Cod or Atlantic City
