Angela knew now that she had felt certain of meeting Hilliard
"accidentally," in the Mission church. That while she walked beside the
elderly Spanish verger, chatting of his native Cordova, listening to tales
of Father Juniperra Serra, Father Somera, and the legend of the Indians
with the miraculous portrait of the Madonna, she had started more than
once at a footfall, fancying it that of her lost hero.

Of course, if he had ventured to show himself at any time she would have
known that it was no coincidence; and she would have lifted her eyebrows
in silent reproach, talking more earnestly to the verger, who had been
happy because she knew Cordova and all his beloved Spanish cathedrals.
Nevertheless, the bronze statue would have fitted well into the scene, and
something lacked because it was absent.

"I do think he might write from his ranch and acknowledge the money I sent
him," she told herself now, neglecting the sand-dabs to stare through the
galleon window at the floating seaweed on the tide-dark gold-green kelp,
like lost laurel-wreaths torn from the brows of drowned divinities. "I
posted the letter myself, that first day. He must have got it--if he _is_
at home."

Just then a tall, dark young man walked into the ship-restaurant, taking
off a sombrero. Angela gathered herself together, ready to administer a
gentle snub. But she might have saved herself the trouble. It was not
Nick. She could have cried with disappointment. Snubs of the past were
coming home to roost.

There was time to buy California jewels in the bazaars--tourmalines and
pearl-blisters--before the car came up, purring sweetly, and looking