red pointed roof, suggested a sketch on a Japanese fan.

This was a spick-and-span little world for a perpetual honeymoon, and at
the entrance of the streets there should have been signs, Angela thought,
saying, "No one but brides and grooms need apply." It was all
distractingly pretty; and though Angela had already admired the big
handsome houses of Los Angeles and Pasadena, these rose-bowered bungalows
caught her fancy more. After all, there is a sameness about millionaires'
mansions the whole world over; but here was something new, invented by
California.

Cupid himself might have been the architect so daintily was each little
dwelling planned for the happiness of two lovers; so, of course, all the
women who lived in these houses must be young and beautiful. All the men
must be handsome, and husbands and wives must adore each other. No
creatures old or fat or inclined to be disagreeable would dare come
house-hunting here; or if they did come, surely some wise suburban by-law
would rule them out! Once in, as residents, the happy lovers would remain
forever young.

"It's to be Riverside to-morrow, ain't it?" Sealman inquired, when, full
two hours later than she had expected, he brought her back to the door of
her hotel.

Angela hesitated. In California, at most times of year, it is hopeless to
use the weather as a handle to hang an excuse upon. She looked at the sky.
It was a vast inverted cup of turquoise.

"Are you sure the car is equal to so long a run?" she asked mildly.