South Park in the Fifties and Sixties was the gayest quarter of respectable San Francisco, with not a hint of the gloom which now presses about it like a pall. The two concave rows of houses were the proudest achievements of Western masonry, and had a somewhat haughty air, as if conscious of the importance they sheltered. The inner park was green and flowered; the flag of the United States floated proudly above. The whole precinct had that atmosphere of happy informality peculiar to the brief honeymoon of a great city. People ran, hatless, in and out of each other’s houses, and sat on the doorsteps when the weather was fine. The present aristocracy of San Francisco, the landed gentry of California whose coat-of-arms should be a cocktail, a side of mutton, or a dishonest contract, would give not a few of their dollars for personal memories of that crumbling enclosure at the foot of the hill: memories that would be welcome even with the skeleton which, rambling through these defaced abandoned houses, they might expect to see grinning in dark spidery corners or in rat-claimed cupboards. Poor old houses! They have kept silent and faithful guard over the dark tales and tragic secrets of their youth; curiosity has been forced to satisfy itself with little more than vague and ugly rumour. The memories that throng them tell little to any but the dead.

There lived, in those days, the Randolphs, the Hathaways, the Dom Pedro Earles, the Hunt McLanes, the three families to which the famous “Macs” belonged, and others that have no place in this story. Before his second week in California was finished, Thorpe knew them all, and was petted and made much of; for San Francisco, then as now, dearly loved the aristocratic stranger. He rode into the city every day, either alone or with Hastings, and rarely returned without spending several moments or hours with Nina Randolph. Sometimes she was alone, sometimes companioned by her intimate friend, Molly Shropshire,—a large masculine girl of combative temper and imbued with disapproval of man. She made no exception in favour of Thorpe, and when he did not find her in the way, he rather enjoyed quarrelling with her. Mrs. Randolph made no more abrupt incursions into the table talk and spent most of her time in her room. Occasionally Thorpe met in the hall a coarse-looking woman whom he knew to be a Mrs. Reinhardt and the favoured friend of Mrs. Randolph. Mr. Randolph was often in brilliant spirits; at other times he looked harassed and sad; but he always made Thorpe feel the welcome guest.

Thorpe, during the first fortnight of their acquaintance, snubbed his maiden attempt to understand Nina Randolph; it was so evident that she did not wish to be understood that he could but respect her reserve. Besides, she was the most charming woman in the place, and that was enough to satisfy any visitor. Just after that he began to see her alone every day; Miss Shropshire had retired to the obscurity of her chamber with a cold, and socialities rarely began before night. They took long walks together in the wild environs of the city, once or twice as far as the sea. Both had a high fine taste in literature, and she was eager for the books of travel he had lived. He sounded her, to discover if she had ambition, for she was an imperious little queen in society; but she convinced him that, when alone or with him, she rose high above the petty strata of life. With a talent, she could have been one of the most rapt and impersonal slaves of Art the world had ever known; and, as it was, her perception for beauty was extraordinary. Thorpe wished that she could carry out her imaginings and live a life of study in Europe; it seemed a great pity that she should marry and settle down into a mere leader of society.

Toward the end of the second fortnight, he began to wonder whether he should care to marry her, were he ready for domesticity, and were there no disquieting mystery about her. He concluded that he should not, as he should doubtless be insanely in love with her if he loved her at all, and she was too various of mood for a man’s peace of mind. But in the wake of these reflections came the impulse to analyse her, and he made no further attempt to snub it.

He went one evening to the house of Mrs. Hunt McLane, a beautiful young Creole who held the reins of the infant city’s society in her small determined hands. Born into the aristocracy of Louisiana, she had grown up in the salon. Her husband had arrived in San Francisco at the period when a class of rowdies known as “The Hounds” were terrorising the city, and, when they were finally arrested and brought to trial, conducted the prosecution. The brilliant legal talent he displayed, the tremendous personal force which carried every jury he addressed, established his position at the head of the bar at once. His wife, with her wide knowledge of the world, her tact, magnetism, and ambition, found no one to dispute her social leadership.

As Thorpe entered, she was standing at the head of the long parlour; and with her high-piled hair, poudrÉ, her gown of dark-red velvet, and her haughty carriage, she looked as if she had just stepped from an old French canvas.

She smiled brilliantly as Thorpe approached her, and he was made to feel himself the guest of the evening,—a sensation he shared with every one in the room.

“I have not seen you for three days and seven hours,” she said. “How are all your flirtations getting on?”

“All my what?”

“Dominga Earle is making frantic eyes at you,” indicating, with a rapid motion of her pupils, a tall slender Mexican who undulated like a snake and whose large black fan and eyes were never idle. “’Lupie Hathaway is looking coldly expectant; and Nina Randolph, who was wholly animated a moment ago, is now quite listless. Not that you are to feel particularly flattered; you are merely something new. Turn over the pages,—Dominga is going to sing,—and I am convinced that she will surpass herself.”

Mrs. Earle was swaying on the piano stool. Her black eyes flashed a welcome to Thorpe, as he moved obediently to her side. Then she threw back her head, raised her eyebrows, dilated her nostrils, and in a ringing contralto sang a Spanish love-song. Thorpe could not understand a word of it, but inferred that it was passionate from the accompaniment of glance which played between himself and a tall blonde man leaning over the piano.

When the song and its encore finished, she was immediately surrounded, and Thorpe slipped away. Miss Randolph was barricaded. He went over to Miss Hathaway, who sat between Hastings and another officer, looking impartially at each. They were dismissed in a manner which made them feel the honour of her caprice.

“That was good of you,” said Thorpe, sinking into a chair opposite her. “It is rarely that one can get a word with you, merely a glance over three feet of shoulder.”

Miss Hathaway made no reply. It was one of her idiosyncrasies never to take the slightest notice of a compliment. She was looking very handsome, although her attire, as ever, suggested a cold disregard of the looking-glass. Thorpe, who was beginning to understand her, did not feel snubbed, but fell to wondering what sort of a time Hastings would have of it when he proposed.

She regarded him meditatively for a moment, then remarked; “You are absent-minded to-night, and that makes you look rather stupid.”

Again Thorpe was not disconcerted. Speeches of this sort from Miss Hathaway were to be hailed as signs of favour. If she did not like a man, she did not talk to him at all. He might sit opposite her throughout the night, and she would not part her lips.

“I am stupid,” he replied. “I have been all day.”

“What is the matter?” Her voice did not soften as another woman’s might have done, but it betrayed interest. “Are you puzzling?”

He coloured, nettled at her insight; but he answered, coldly:—

“Yes; I am puzzling.”

“Do not,” said Miss Hathaway, significantly. “Puzzle about any one else in California, but not about Nina Randolph.”

“What is this mystery?” he exclaimed impatiently, then added hastily, “oh, bother! I am too much of a wanderer to puzzle over any one.”

Miss Hathaway fixed her large cold blue regard upon him. “Do you love Nina Randolph?” she asked.

“I am afraid I love all women too much to trust to my own selection of one.”

“Now you are stupid. Go and talk to Nina.” She turned her back upon him, and smiled indulgently to a new-comer.

He crossed the room; a group of men parted with indifferent grace, and he leaned over Nina’s chair.

She was looking gay and free of care, and her eyes flashed a frank welcome to Thorpe. “I thought you were not coming to talk to me,” she said, with a little pout.

“Duty first,” he murmured. “Come over into the little reception-room and talk to me.”

“What am I to do with all these men?”

“Nothing.”

“You are very exacting—for a friend.”

“If you are a good friend, you will come. I am tired and bored.”

She rose, shook out her pretty pink skirts, nodded to her admirers, and walked off with Thorpe.

He laughed. “Perhaps they will console themselves with the reflection that as they have spoiled you, they should stand the consequences.”

They took possession of a little sofa in the reception-room. Another couple was in the window curve, and yet another opposite.

“We have not had our hunt,” said Nina; “the country has been a mud-hole. But we are to have it on Monday, if all goes well.”

“Who else is to be of the party?”

“Molly, Guadalupe, and Captain Hastings. Don’t speak of it to any one else. I don’t want a crowd.”

She lay back, her skirts sweeping his feet. A pink ribbon was twisted in her hair. The colour in her cheeks was pink. The pose of her head, as she absently regarded the stupid frescoes on the ceiling, strained her beautiful throat, making it look as hard as ivory, accentuating the softer loveliness of the neck. Thorpe looked at her steadily. He rarely touched her hand.

“I have something else in store for you,” she said, after a moment. “Just beyond the army posts are great beds of wild strawberries. It was a custom in the Spanish days to get up large parties every spring and camp there, gather strawberries, wander on the beach and over the hills, and picnic generally. We have kept it up; and if this weather lasts, if spring is really here, a crowd of us are going in a couple of weeks—you included. You have no idea what fun it is!”

“I shall not try to imagine it.” He spoke absently. He was staring at a curling lock that had strayed over her temple. He wanted to blow it.

“I am tired,” she said. “Talk to me. I have been gabbling for an hour.”

“I’m not in the mood for talking,” he said, shortly. “But keep quiet, if you want to. I suppose we know each other well enough for that.”

The other people left the room. Nina arranged herself more comfortably, and closed her eyes. Her mouth relaxed slightly, and Thorpe saw the lines about it. She looked older when the animation was out of her face, but none the less attractive. His eyes fell on her neck. He moved closer. She opened her eyes, and he raised his. The colour left her face, and she rose.

“Take me to papa,” she said; “I am going home.”

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