That night, while everybody drank coffee and talked or played bridge in
the hall, it was suddenly flooded with a tidal wave of women. They flowed
into the hotel in a compact stream of femininity; billows of stout elderly
ladies, and dancing ripples of slim young girls, with here and there a
side-eddy of thin, middle-aged spinsterhood. Each female thing had a
"grip," and of these possessions they built the desk a mountain of
volcanic formation, which looked alarmingly subject to eruptions and
upheavals. Then they all began to talk at once, to each other and to such
hotel officials as they could overwhelm and swamp.

"Good gracious! what is it?" asked Miss Dene of Falconer, who was supposed
to be a human encyclopaedia of general information. "I didn't suppose
there were so many women in the world!"

"They're Native Daughters, out for an excursion and the time of their
lives," said Falconer.

"Why Native?" Angela ventured. "It sounds like oysters."

"And it means California. They were all born in this State; and they will
now proceed to see something of it in each other's company. To-morrow
morning they'll 'do' the Mission of Santa Barbara."

"They'll do _for_ it, if they all try to get in at once," laughed Miss
Dene. "The place will be simply crawling with Daughters. How lucky we've
done our sightseeing to-day!"

She did not take the trouble to moderate her voice; and one of the new
arrivals, who hovered alone on the edge of the crowd, like a bubble of