IN the morning his was the last berth made up for the day; the car, shaded against the sun, was rolling slightly, and he braced himself as he made his way toward breakfast. The tables were all occupied; but, at a carelessly hospitable nod, he found a place with two men. They were, he immediately saw, Jews. One was robustly middle aged, with a pinkly smooth countenance, a slightly flattened nose, and eyes as colorless as clear water in a goblet. He was carefully dressed in shepherd's plaid, with a gay tie that held a noticeably fine pearl. His companion was thin and dark, with a heavy nose irritated to rawness by the constant application of a blue silk handkerchief. The latter, Anthony discovered in the course of the commonplaces which followed, was sycophant and henchman of the first—a never failing source of applause for the former's witticisms.

“How far out are you bound?” queried the owner of the pearl. Then, when Anthony had told him his destination, “no business opportunities in California for a young man without capital behind him; only hard work and a day laborer's wages. Nothing West but fruit, land and politics on a large scale. My chauffeur at a hundred a month does better than eighty per cent, of the young ones in the West.”

This information fell like a dark cloud over Anthony's sanguine hopes for a speedy and opulent return. A sense of imminent misfortune pressed upon him, a sudden, unreasoning dread of what might be in store for Eliza and himself, of the countless perils of a protracted delay. At the end of two years he might be no better off than he was at present. His brother-in-law, he knew, would only pay him a nominal amount at first. The two years stretched out interminably in his imagination.

The more prosperous of his companions selected a cigar from a silk case, and, cutting it with a gold penknife, they removed to the smoking car. “I drove a car for a while,” Anthony informed them later, mingling the acidulous smoke of a Dulcina with the more fragrant clouds of Habana; “it was a Challenger six.”

“Hartmann here is a director in the Challenger factory,” the sycophant told him. “The factory's in our home city, where we are going. It's a great car.” Hartmann examined Anthony with a new and more personal interest. “Did you like it?” he demanded.

“It's all right, for the price,” Anthony assured him; “it's the most sporting looking car on the American market.”

“That's the thing,” the other declared with satisfaction; “big sales and a quick return on investment. A showy car is what the public want, the engine's unimportant, it's paint that counts.”

“Do you have any radiator trouble?” Anthony demanded. The other regarded him shrewdly. “I run a Berliet,” he announced; “I was discussing a popular article.” He arranged himself more comfortably in his leather chair, and prepared for sleep.

Anthony returned to his place in the coach, where he brooded dejectedly upon what he had heard about California. He thought of the distance widening at a dizzy rate between Eliza and himself, and plunged into a vast pit of loneliness... he had made a terrible mistake in leaving her. It seemed to him now that he had deserted her, perhaps she was suffering on account of him—had expected him to free her from an intolerable condition. Again he cursed in his heart the prudent counsel of old men, the cold sapience of the world, that had betrayed him, that had prevailed over him against his instinct, his longing.