expound Newman's "Apologia" to her. She could not understand it and
she must.

He smiled at the pretty imperiousness of the note so like herself;
for her circle had spoiled her, and whatever her husband's
idiosyncrasies she was certainly his petted darling.

He went, of course. And before long he was spending every afternoon
in the charming room so like a French salon of the Eighteenth Century
that the raucous sounds of San Francisco beyond the closed and
curtained windows beat upon it faintly like the distant traffic of a
great city.

Masters had asked himself humorously, Why not? and succumbed. There
was no other place to go except the Club, and Mrs. Talbot was an
infinitely more interesting companion than men who discussed little
besides their business, professional, or demi-monde engrossments. It
was a complete relaxation from his own driving work. He was writing
the entire editorial page of his newspaper, the demand for his
articles from Eastern magazines and weekly journals was incessant;
which not only contributed to his pride and income, but to the glory
of California. He was making her known for something besides gold,
gamblers, and Sierra pines.

But above all he was instructing and expanding a feminine but really
fine mind. She sat at his feet and there was no doubt in that mind,
both naive and gifted, that his was the most remarkable intellect in
the world and that from no book ever written could she learn as much.
He would have been more than mortal had he renounced his pedestal and
he was far too humane for the cruelty of depriving her of the