and might be, without seeming hopelessly remote somehow; but the pedestal
of a princess was cold as a block of marble.

The poster-simile did not occur to Nick; but he thought that the
red-haired girl with the self-conscious eyes, standing beside Mrs. May,
was like a coloured lithograph in a magazine, compared with a delicate
painting in a picture gallery, such as he loved to go and see in San
Francisco. Miss Dene's peculiar attraction, strong for many men, left him
cold, although he might have felt it if he had never seen Angela.

"I'm travelling with Mrs. Harland, and her brother, Mr. Falconer, in his
private car," Theo explained. She turned to them. "Mrs. May won't mind my
claiming her as a friend I hope. She was immensely nice to me in Rome. And
we've met in London, too. I don't know why I was surprised to see her.
Every one comes to this country. And Mr. Hilliard, perhaps, you both
know?"

"We have met," said John Falconer, whom Nick had praised yesterday as the
"typical" man of California. He put out his hand, and Nick took it,
pleased and somewhat surprised by the recognition. For he was in his own
eyes an insignificant person compared to John Falconer, who had done
things worth doing in the world.

Angela remembered Nick's eulogy of the man. He was about forty, as tall as
Hilliard, though built more heavily. Nick was clean shaven, and Falconer
wore a close-cut brown beard, which gave him somewhat the air of a naval
officer, though his face was not so deeply tanned. His features were
strong, and behind his clear eyes thoughts seemed to pass as clouds move
under the surface of a deep lake. Such a man was born to be a leader. No
one could look at him and not see that.