COPYRIGHT, 1922,
BY THE MACAULAY COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.
TO
MY FRIEND
DOROTHEA THORNTON CLARKE
WITHOUT WHOSE HELP AND CONSTANT ENCOURAGEMENT
NEITHER THIS NOR ANY OF MY BOOKS
WOULD HAVE BEEN WRITTEN
PREFACE
A beach of white sand, the whisper of palms answering the murmuring moonlit sea, the fragrance of orange blossoms, the perfume of roses and syringa,—that is Grand Canary, a bit of Heaven dropped into the Atlantic; overlooked by writers and painters in general. Surely one can be pardoned a bit of praise and promise for this story, laid, as it is in part, in that magic island.
The Canaries properly belong to the African continent. That is best proven by their original inhabitants who were of pure Berber stock. The islands are the stepping stone between Europe and the Sahara. Mysterious Arabs and a continual stream of those silent men who come and go from the great desert tarry there for a while, giving color and romance to the big hotels.
The petty gossip, the real news of the Sahara "breaks" there.—Weird, passionate tales; believable or not, they carry an undercurrent of reality that thrills.
From such a source came this story. Unaltered in fact, it is given to you, the life story of a man and a woman who turned their backs on worldly conventions that they might find happiness. If it is frank, forgive it. Life near the Equator is not a milk and water affair.