He was of British blood! He must have been brought up in England, have lived there when he was a child, in perhaps the same sort of environment as her own.

It was impossible to think about it sanely. It was incredible, frightening and at the same time embarrassing beyond words. She thought then that she could never bear to face him again now that she knew his secret.

“Guido Tremayna”.

“Guy Tremayne”.

She repeated the names aloud. Why had she not guessed before? Why had she been so stupid and blind? And yet how could an Englishman dare to do this?

She thought of his cruelty and of his despotic power over her and over all those who served him. And she remembered his forced kisses and felt her cheeks burn again with the shame of knowing that he too was British.

Once she had stormed at him,

“You are a barbarian!”

“Why not?” he had enquired.

“In any civilised country you would be put in prison or treated like a madman for behaving like this.”

“We don’t pretend to be civilised in Mariposa,” he replied, but he had only been mocking her and she had known it even at the time.

He had the utmost contempt for what he called ‘the playgrounds of Europe and America’ and for the Socialites whom he described as degenerate and half-witted.

One day when he had seen her enjoyment as they were riding over the plain and the sun was sinking in a blaze of glory he had asked,

“Could anything be more beautiful than that?”

“Nothing,” she had answered softly.

“Why don’t you tell the truth,” he asked harshly, “and say that you prefer the lights of Broadway or the nightclubs round Piccadilly Circus? That is your life, isn’t it? With Mayfair half-wits chattering ceaselessly to each other about each other. How you must be missing those empty conversations with empty-headed young men!”

There was an anger in his voice that had surprised her.

“I dislike all young men – empty-headed or otherwise,” she had answered. “But why do you assume that they are worse in England than anywhere else?”

He had shrugged his shoulders.

“You will find the same sort of cocktail-drinking fools in Jācara,” he admitted, “but here in the country itself everything and everybody is different. But, of course, you wouldn’t understand.”

She had longed for one moment to tell him that she did understand, but she would not give him the satisfaction of hearing that she agreed with him. Instead she had said in what she hoped was a scathing tone,

“I don’t want to understand you or your behaviour.”

He had laughed then at her attempt to snub him and the moment for talking seriously passed. She had been so intent on her own feelings that she had never thought it strange that he should speak in such a strained way.