--unless, indeed, I marry Don Weeliam Sturgis
and become a great lady in Boston. It would not be
so mean a fate."

Rezanov darted a look of angry contempt at the
pale young man who was eating little and miser-
ably watching the handsome pair at the head of the
table. "You will not marry him!" he said briefly.

"I could do far worse." Concha's lashes framed
an adorable glance that sent the blood to the hair
of the sensitive youth. "You have no idea how
clever and good he is. And--Madre de Dios!--
I am so tired of California."

"But you are a part of it--the very symbol of its
future, it seems to me. I wish I had a sculptor in
my suite. I should make him model you, label the
statue 'California,' and erect it on the peak of that
big island out there."

"That is very poetical, but after all, you are only
saying that I am a pretty savage with an education
that will be more common in the next generation.
It is little consolation for an existence where the
most exciting event in a lifetime is the arrival of a
foreign ship or the inauguration of a governor."
And once more she smiled at Sturgis. He raised
his glass impulsively, and she hers in gay response. A
moment later she gave the signal to leave the table.