Her head against him, her hand in his, he sensed the beauty of her garden, tall poinsettias, cerise bougainvillaea, roses, honeysuckle, _azucenas_. A row of lilies crossed a stretch of grass under crooked cypress.... This was Lucienne's workshop. She neglected her friends for her garden, a collector's garden: rare columbine, carnations, violets, asters, unusual willows, acacia, papaya, fig, breadfruit and zapote. She grew pittosporum, succulents and cacti. She had Humboldt fever ... her hands felt rough. Something was always germinating in her glasshouses. When she had come back from Europe, along with her Parisian lingerie, Swiss jackets, and Italian hats, she had smuggled seeds or plants. A Japanese rosewood on one trip, a Greek olive tree on another. "What happened to the camellias, the northern ones?" he asked, after a long silence. "They seem to be doing all right.... Will you be good to yourself, Raul? I'm worried about your shoulder. I won't know how you're getting along. Get well!" The worker banged at the broken spring. "With all these troubled times, Petaca gets farther and farther away from me. I think about you in so many ways," she said. "Your quarrels with your father. Pedro. Your Caterina. Ah, darling...." "Do you really think I'll succeed in helping Petaca? All my efforts can amount to very little in the end." "That's all any of us can hope for," she said, "a little progress." "I wish I had your help." "But I'm no hacendada. I have my servants, my flowers, my trees." She eyed her garden, its paths, its shade patterns, its sun. "Nobody is treated badly here.... I've just four regular men now. Gonzalez and Ortiz will have to be replaced. My women come and go. I guess I live too near Colima to keep them long. When my old Guanajuato mine stops paying me dividends, then I'll have to become an hacendada.... Just now, I live in peace ... just enough ... you know, my dear." Someone called Lucienne, and she went into the house. Raul appreciated Palma Sola. Nowhere in Europe had he discovered such a spot and he doubted whether one existed, such a tropic garden where ocean sucked at discontent. Here palmera, garden and ocean talked together--like old friends. As pain returned, he forced himself to listen to the fronds; their brushing fingers made the sound of falling water. But there was more to Palma Sola than serenity: there was heat, when the only possible relief was a dip; there were storms; there were cloud banks and scattered fogs; there were phosphorescent waves that swallowed the horizon. The pain moved in again and Raul thought of Pedro. He wanted him out of the way. Perhaps the Yaqui had murdered somebody. At the earliest opportunity, he would spend a day in Colima, butter some palms and put the rurales wise: the gray-uniformed men would tip their caps and Pedro would be a marked man.