By the time Roderic was well enough to be moved San Juan had come into the hands of the Americans, a protocol having been signed anticipating peace between the two nations, now at war for the first time in their history.
Porto Rico was a part of the United States—the days of Spain's dominion had passed and would return no more.
It was necessary that Roderic be moved north, for recovery would be more rapid in a cooler, bracing atmosphere.
Cleo's beautiful steam yacht still lay in the harbor awaiting her pleasure.
No one may ever know who suggested the thing, but that mattered little, since such a union was a foregone conclusion; but one day a little ceremony was performed in Roderic's room at the hotel, and Cleo changed her name—Miss Fairfax of Virginia was no more—enter Mrs. Roderic Owen.
Thus Roderic brushed all scruples aside—as the husband of the owner of the yacht he could sail in her forever without arousing comment.
Weak as he was he and Cleo drove to the grave of his lost love and mingled their tears with the beautiful flowers they spread upon it.
No, Roderic could never forget her—he would be less than a man to dream of trying, and no doubt once in a while a yearning would arise in his heart that could not be kept down, for in imagination he could feel her arms about his neck, her passionate kisses upon his lips.
But that will come and go as a vague dream.
His wife is the sweetest and noblest woman in all the wide world, her devotion to him is the envy of all his bachelor friends and Roderic declares himself the happiest benedict in existence.