a lesson as to what
they wanted!"

She looked at him a moment--timidly, yet thoughtfully. "Then you are an
actor--a person who simulates what he does not feel?"

"Yes."

"And all the time you have been here you have been acting the
schoolmaster--playing a part--for--for Mr. Barstow?"

"Yes."

"Always?"

"Yes."

The color came softly to her face again, and her voice was very low.
"And when you sang to me that day, and when you looked at me--as
you did--an hour or two ago--while you were entertaining--you
were--only--acting?"

Mr. Twing's answer was not known, but it must have been a full and
complete one, for it was quite dark when he left the schoolroom--NOT for
the last time--with its mistress on his arm.

IN A PIONEER RESTAURANT.

CHAPTER I.

There was probably no earthly reason why the "Poco Mas o Menos" Club
of San Francisco should have ever existed, or why its five harmless,
indistinctive members should not have met and dined together as ordinary
individuals. Still less was there any justification for the gratuitous
opinion which obtained, that it was bold, bad, and brilliant. Looking
back upon it over a quarter of a century and half a globe, I confess I
cannot recall a single witticism, audacity, or humorous characteristic
that belonged to it. Yet there was no doubt that we were thought to be
extremely critical and satirical, and I am inclined to think we
honestly believed it. To take our seats on Wednesdays and Saturdays at
a specially reserved table at the restaurant we patronized, to be
conscious of being observed by the other guests, and of our waiter
confidentially imparting our fame to strangers behind the shaken-out
folds of a napkin, and of knowing that the faintest indication of
merriment from our table thrilled the other guests with anticipatory
smiles, was, I am firmly convinced, all that we ever did to justify our
reputations. Nor, strictly speaking, were we remarkable as individuals;
an assistant editor, a lawyer, a young army quartermaster, a bank clerk
and a mining secretary--we could not separately challenge any special
social or literary distinction. Yet I am satisfied that the very name
of our Club--a common Spanish colloquialism, literally meaning "a little
more or less," and adopted in Californian slang to express an unknown
quantity--was supposed to be replete with deep and convulsing humor.

My impression is that our extravagant reputation, and, indeed, our
contin