“Tell Miss Randolph that I will call at three,” said Thorpe, promptly.

He had no wish to avoid the interview; he was quite willing that she should turn the scorpions of her wrath upon him. He deserved it. He did not pretend to understand Nina Randolph, deeply as he had puzzled over her since their memorable interview; but that he had helped her to violate her own self-respect, there could be little doubt, and he longed to give her what satisfaction he could. He had lived his inner life very fully, and knew all that the sacrifice of an ideal meant to the higher parts of the mind. Whether Miss Randolph had ever kissed a man before or not, he would not pretend to guess; but he would have been willing to swear that she had never kissed another in the same circumstances; and he burned to think that he had been the man to cast her at the foot of her girlish pedestal. Whatever possibilities for evil there might be in her, instinct prompted him to believe that they were undeveloped. Her strong sudden magnetism for him had passed with her presence, and, looking back, he attributed it entirely to the momentary passion of which he was ashamed; but he felt something of the curious tie which binds thinking people who have helped each other a step down the moral ladder.

After luncheon, he informed Hastings that he was going to the city, and asked for a horse.

“I’ll go with you—”

“I don’t want you,” said Thorpe, bluntly. “I have a particular reason for wishing to go alone.”

“Oh, very well,” said Hastings, amiably. “The savage loves his solitude, I know.”

The road between the army posts and San Francisco was well beaten. Thorpe could not have lost his way, even if the horse had not known every inch of it.

He reached the city within an hour. It was less picturesque by day than by night. The board sidewalks were broken and uneven, the streets muddy. The tall frame buildings of the business section looked as if they had been pieced together in intervals between gambling and lynching. Dwelling-houses with gardens about them were scattered on the heights.

Two miles south of the swarming, hurrying, swearing brain of the city was the aristocratic quarter,—South Park and Rincon Hill. The square wooden houses, painted a dark brown, had a solid and substantial air, and looked as if they might endure through several generations.

The man, Cochrane, admitted Thorpe, and conducted him to the library. The room was unoccupied, and, as the door closed behind the butler, Thorpe for the first time experienced a flutter. He was about to have a serious interview with a girl of whose type he knew nothing. Would she expect him to apologise? He had always held that the man who kissed and apologised was an ass. But he had done Miss Randolph something more than a minor wrong.

He shrugged his shoulders and took his stand before the fireplace. She had sent for him; let her take the initiative. He knew woman well enough to follow her cues, be the type new or old. Then he looked about him with approval. One would know it was an Englishman’s library, he thought. Book-shelves, closely furnished, lined two sides of the large and lofty room. One end opened into the conservatory—where palms did shelter and the lights were dim. The rugs and curtains were red, the furniture very comfortable. On a long table were the periodicals of the world.

Miss Randolph kept him waiting but a few moments. She opened the door abruptly and entered. Her face was pale, and her eyes were shadowed; but she held her head very high. Her carriage and her long dark gown made her appear almost tall. As she advanced down the room, she looked at Thorpe steadily, without access of colour, her lips pressed together. He met her half way. His first impression was that her figure was the most beautiful he had ever seen, his next the keenest impulse of pity he had felt for any woman.

She extended her hand mechanically, and he took it and held it.

“Is it true that I kissed you the other night?” she asked, peremptorily.

“Yes,” he said, ungracefully.

“And I had drunk too much champagne?”

“It was my fault,” he said, eagerly. “You told me that you had a bad head. I had no business to press it on you.”

“You must think I am a poor weak creature indeed, if my friends are obliged to take care of me,” she said drily. “I was a fool to touch it—that is the long and the short of it. I have given you a charming impression of the girls of San Francisco—sit down: we look idiotic standing in the middle of the room holding each other’s hand—I can assure you that there was not another girl in the house who would have done what I did, or whom you would have dared to kiss. In a new country, you know, the social lines are drawn very tight, and the best people are particular to prudery. It is necessary: there are so many dreadful women out here. I am positive that in the set to which Captain Hastings has introduced you, you will meet a larger number of well-conducted people than you have ever met in any one place before.”

“It is very good of you to put on armour for your city,” he said, smiling. “I shall always think of it as your city, by the way. But I thought you did not like California.”

“It is my country. I feel great pride in it. You will find that it is a country with a peculiar influence. Some few natures it leaves untouched—but they are precious few. In the others, it quickens all the good and evil they were born with.”

Thorpe looked at her with a profound interest. He was eager to hear all that she had to say.

“I have never before had occasion to speak like this to any man,” she went on. “If I had had, I should not have done so. I should have carried it off with a high hand, ignored it, assumed that I was above criticism. I only speak to you so frankly because you are an Englishman. People of the same blood are clannish when away from their own land. I say this without coquetry: I care more for your good opinion than for that of any of the others—I am so tired of them!”

“Thank you—even if you did rather spoil it. You have it, if it really matters to you. Surely, you don’t think I misunderstand. I insist upon assuming all the blame—and—upon apologising.”

“Well, I am glad you apologised. Although you were not the most to blame, just for the moment it made me feel that you were. I have already forgiven you.” She dropped her eyes for a moment, then looked at him again with her square, almost defiant regard. “There is something I have been trying to lead up to. It is this—it is not very easy to say—I want you to make a promise. There is a skeleton in this house. Some people know. I don’t want you to ask them about it. My father will ask you here constantly. I shall want you to come, too. I ask you to promise to keep your eyes shut. Will you?”

“I shall see nothing. Thanks, thanks.” He got up and moved nervously about. “We will be friends, the best of friends, promise me that. No flirtation. No nonsense. There may be something I can do to help you while I am here. I hope there will be.”

“There will not, but I like you better for saying that—I know you are not demonstrative.” She threw herself back in her chair and smiled charmingly. “As to the other part—yes, we shall be the best of friends. It was hard to speak, but I am glad that I did. I knew it was either that or a nodding acquaintance, and I had made up my mind that it should be something quite different. When we are alone and serious, we will not flirt; but I have moods, irrepressible ones. If, when we meet in society, I happen to be in a highly flirtatious humour, you are to flirt with me. Do you understand?”

“Certainly, certainly, I agree—to keep you from flirting with other men.”

“Now fetch that portfolio over there,—it has Bruges in it,—and tell me something about every stone.”

They talked for two hours, and of much beside Bruges. Haphazardly as she had been educated in this new land, her natural intelligence had found nutrition in her father’s mind and library. Thorpe noted that when talking on subjects which appealed to the intellect alone, her face changed strikingly: the heavy lids lifted, the eyes sparkled coldly, the mouth lost its full curves. Even her voice, so warm and soft, became, more than once, harsh and sharp.

“There are several women in her,” he thought. “She certainly is very interesting. I should like to meet her again ten years hence.”

He did.

“Why don’t you travel?” he asked. “It would mean so much more to you than to most women. Even if Mr. Randolph cannot leave this fair young city he is building up, and your mother won’t leave him, you could go with some one else—”

“I never expect to leave California,” she said shortly. Then, as she met his look of surprise, she added: “I told you a fib when I said that I did not dream, or only a little. I get out of my own life for hours at a time by imagining myself in Europe, cultivating my mind, my taste for art, to their utmost limit, living a sort of impersonal life—Of course there are times when I imagine myself with some one who would care for it all as much as I, and know more—and all that. But I try to keep to the other. I have suffered enough to know that in the impersonal life is the surest content. And as for the other—it could not be, even if I ever met such a man. But dreams help one enormously, and I am the richer for all I have indulged in.”

Thorpe stood up again. Under a rather impassive exterior, he was a restless man, and his acquaintance with Nina Randolph had tried his nerves.

“I wish you had not given me half confidences, or that you would refrain from rousing my curiosity—my interest, as you do. It is hardly fair. I don’t wish to know what the family skeleton is, but I do want to know you better. If you want the truth, I have never been so intriguÉ by a woman in my life. And I have never so wanted to help one. I have been so drawn to you that I have had a sense of having done you a personal wrong ever since the other night. A man does not usually feel that way when he kisses a girl. I see it is no use to ask your confidence now; but, mind, I don’t say I sha’n’t demand it later on.”

At this moment the butler entered with the lamps. He was followed immediately by Mr. Randolph, who exclaimed delightedly:

“Is it really you, Mr. Thorpe? I have just sent you a note asking you to dine with us on Sunday. And you’ll stay to dinner to-night—no, I won’t listen to any excuses. If you knew what a pleasure it is to meet an Englishman once more!”

“Hastings will think I am lost—”

“I’ll send him a note, and ask him to come in for the evening, and I’ll get in a dozen of our neighbours. We’ll have some music and fun.”

“Very well—I am rather keen on staying, to tell you the truth. Many thanks.”

“Sit down. You must see something of sport here. It is very interesting in this wild country.”

“I should like it above all things.” Thorpe sat forward eagerly, forgetting Miss Randolph. “What have you that’s new? I’ve killed pretty nearly everything.”

“We will have an elk hunt.”

“I want to go, too,” said Nina, authoritatively.

Thorpe turned, and smiled, as he saw the hasty retreat of an angry sparkle.

“I am afraid you would be a disturbing influence,” he said gallantly.

“I shouldn’t disturb you,” she said, with the pertness of a spoilt child. “I am a good shot myself. I can go—can’t I, papa?”

Mr. Randolph smiled indulgently. “You can do anything you like, my darling,” he said. “I wonder you condescend to ask.”

Nina ran over and kissed him, then propped her chin on top of his head and looked defiantly at Thorpe.

“If you don’t take me,” she remarked, drily, “there will be no hunt.”

“On the whole, I think my mind would concentrate better if you were not absent,” he said.

She blew him a kiss. “You are improving. Hasta luego! I must go and smooth my feathers.” And she ran out of the room.

The two men talked of the threatened civil upheaval in the United States until dinner was announced, a half hour later.

Mrs. Randolph did not appear until the soup had been removed. She entered the dining-room hurriedly, muttering an apology. Her toilette had evidently been made in haste: her brooch was awry; and her hair, banded down the face after the fashion of the time, hung an inch below one ear and exposed the lobe of the other, dealing detrimentally with her dignity, despite her fine physique.

She took no part in the conversation for some time. It was very lively. Mr. Randolph was full of anecdote and information, and enjoyed scintillating. He frequently referred to Nina, as if proud of her cleverness and anxious to exhibit it; but the guest noticed that he never addressed a word—nor a glance—to his wife.

Suddenly Thorpe’s eyes rested on a small dark painting in oils, the head of an old man.

“That is rather good,” he said, “and a very interesting face.”

“You have probably never heard of the artist, unless you have read the life of his sister. I was so fond of the man that I resent his rescue from oblivion by the fame of a woman. His name was Branwell BrontË, and that is a portrait of my grandfather.”

“If Branwell ’ad a-conducted hisself,” said a heavy voice opposite, “’ee’d a-been the wonder of the family. Mony a time a ’ve seen ’im coom into tha Lord Rodney Inn, ’is sharp little face as red as tha scoollery maid’s ’ands, and rockin’ from one side of tha ’all to tha hother, and sit doon at tha table, and make a caricachure of ivvery mon thot coom in. And once when ’ee was station-master at Luddondon Foote a ’ve ’eard as ’ow a mon coom runnin’ oop just as tha train went oot, and said as ’ow ’ee was horful anxious to know if a certain mon went hoff. ’Ee tried describin’ ’im, and couldn’t, so Branwell drew pictures of all the persons as ’ad left, and ’ee recognised the one as ’ee wanted.”

There was a moment’s silence, so painful that Thorpe felt his nerves jumping and the colour rising to his face. He recalled his promise, and looked meditatively at the strange concoction which had been placed before him as Mrs. Randolph finished. But his thought was arbitrary. An ignorant woman of the people, possibly an ex-servant, who could only play the gentlewoman through a half-dozen rehearsed sentences, and forget the rÔle completely at times! He had not expected to find the skeleton so soon.

“That is carne con agi, a Chile dish,” said Mr. Randolph, suavely. “I’m very fond of Spanish cooking, myself, and you had better begin your education in it at once: you will get a good deal out here.”

“I am jolly glad to hear it. I’m rather keen on new dishes.” He glanced up. Mr. Randolph was yellow. The lines in his face had deepened. Thorpe dared not look at Nina.

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