In the lower reaches of the garden she came upon an illustration of her thought--a fountain effect whose central figure was the sculped, naked body of a woman bent beneath the club of her man and master, on her lips a seductive smile, from her eyes spouting twin founts of electric spray--tears of terror. Hearing footsteps behind, Dolores stopped, as if in admiration of the ghoulish conceit. The throb of her temples was not cooled by the hot winds with which the tropical foliage illusions of the garden were artificially fanned. The sinking sensation at her heart was no sickness from the too-intense odors of the lavish-looking bloom. The hurt of her ears could not be blamed on shrieks of the peacocks, parrakeets and tanagers which soundlessly strutted and winged about. No winds of Gehenna might discomfort her, except in her own acknowledgment. No odors, except from memory, might penetrate her senses from poinsettias or rhododendrons. No sound, except as she imagined it, might swell the throats of the birds. From the rubber plants grouped at the entrance gate, through the lane of Spanish bayonets whose barbs were a menace to one who strolled, to the fountain called “Fate of the Fair,” the garden was one vast stage set, a master chimera. Bad luck, then--that too must be hallucination. Courage came to Dolores with the thought. She, an immortal woman soul, would not bow the neck to an undeserved club. She must lift her head believing that even the winds of Hell would cool her brow; must delight in fragrances, strong from her own expectation; must open wide her ears to the Seraphs’ song of hope. Ready to meet His Majesty, she turned. Her disappointment was keen as her courage to see in him who was approaching the lame old soldier-soul, Samuel Cummings. At first only his face and crutch were recognizable, so resplendent was he in the uniform of an officer of the Hadean Hordes. When he drew up before her with his old-time salute, she counted on his forehead, branded blood-red, the stars of a general. Her maid had told him he’d find her out here, the old chap explained. He had come to tell her the news. His Majesty had called him to an interview night before last and promoted him because it was beneath the Royal dignity to confer in private with a corporal. So Old Sam, then, had supplanted her as entertainer. As if in answer to Dolores’ thought, he motioned with his crutch toward a bench of opalesque stone that stood beneath an arbor of purple bourgainvillae. The honor paid him, he declared, was only the preface to his news. When seated beside her, however, he seemed loathe to proceed; glanced uneasily among the flowers of an oleander bush which changed color with alternating currents of red and white.