ce was Harry Banks, mine owner, millionaire, and figure
about town--every one in San Francisco knew him or knew about him.
That tall, swaying girl with the repressed mouth, the abundant hair
coiled about her head, the rather dull expression, was Marion
Slater--"she paints miniatures and hammers brass and does all kinds of
art stunts," Kate had said. That tall young man, who radiated good
manners, was Dr. Norman French; that little woman, all girl, was Alice
Needham, his fiancee. "They play juvenile lead in this crowd," had
been Kate's phrase for them.

Kate, taking possession of Bertram at once, gave him her bag to carry,
and, as the gates opened and the whistle blew, she walked beside him.
From the upper deck, this Masters party watched that city panorama,
spread on the hills for all to see, roll away from them, the wheeling
flocks of gulls trailing the craft in the roads, the surge of golden
waters rolling in from the Gate. A morning mood blew in upon the
winds; the party became gay.

Bertram, in the rise of his morning spirits, performed certain
cub-like gambols for the benefit of Kate Waddington. The company
failed not to notice that he had assisted her up the gangway by
slipping his hand under her elbow. On the deck, he cut her out
immediately from the rest, insisted on tucking her veil into his
pocket, made a pretence of trying to take her hand. Even Kate found it
hard to parry these advances. Banks, slouching back on a bench in his
easy, indolent attitude, looked over toward them, and his mouth
tightened and set. So much had he been courted for his wealth and
personality, this Harry Banks, that among his familiars he assumed the
privilege of falling into moods without reason or preliminary notice.
His present mood was a perverse one; and he took it out on its reason
for being--this presumptuous outsider.

"Me Gawd, Jimmie, but me belt hurts!" he called out suddenly in his
richest imitation of the South of Market dialect. With his light step
of a dancer, he skipped over to Kate Waddington, whirled her to her
feet, and began to waltz about the forward deck, imitating the
awkward, contorted, cheek-to-cheek style of the Schuetzen Park picnic.
Kate, who fell in at once with every invitation, had laughed as he
began to whirl her, but she flushed too. The whole upper deck was
craning necks to stare. Mrs. Masters caught her breath and whispered,
"Oh, don't!" Dr. French and Alice Needham fell to talking apart, as
thou