passengers onto the boat. "San Francisco is modern to the core," he
continued. "Boston dates back generations, but you have hardly acquired
your three score years and ten."

"If you don't like fine progressive cities, why did you come to
California?" His fault-finding with San Francisco hurt me as if it had
been a personal criticism.

"You know why I came," he said gently, with his eyes on my face.

I felt the blood creeping to my cheeks and turned quickly to look for an
out-of-doors seat. In the crowd we were jostled by a little slant-eyed
man of the Orient, resplendent in baggy blue silk trousers tied neatly
at the ankles and a loose coat lined with lavender, whose flowing
sleeves half concealed his slender brown hands.

"There's a man who has centuries at his back." My companion's eyes
traveled from the soft padded shoes to the little red button on the top
of the black skull cap. "Even his costume is the same as his
forefathers'."

"If you are interested in the Chinese, I'll show you Oriental San
Francisco. It lies in the heart of the city and its very atmosphere is
saturated with Eastern customs. It is much more sanitary but not as
picturesque as it was before the fire." I flushed as I saw his
amusement, and quickly called his attention to the receding shores where
the encircling green hills had thrown out long banners of yellow mustard
and blue lupins. To the right was Mt. Tamalpais, a sturdy sentinel
looking out to the ocean, its summit pressed against the sky's blue
canopy and its base lost in a network of purple forests. In front of the