ndfather, like a little boy ten years old! I like men that are
their own masters. But I suppose I would have married him. You see, he
would have been a lord when his grandfather died. It was genuine--we saw
it in the _Peerage_."

She looked into Faraday's eyes. Her own were as clear and deep as
mountain springs. Was Miss. Genevieve Ryan the most absolutely honest
and outspoken young woman that had ever lived, or was she some subtle
and unusual form of Pacific Slope coquette?

"Popper was quite mad about it," she continued. "He thought Mr. Courtney
was an ordinary sort of person, anyway. I didn't. I just thought him
dull, and I suppose he couldn't help that. Mommer wanted to go over to
England last summer. She thought we might stumble on him over there. But
popper wouldn't let her do it. He sent us to Alaska instead." She
paused, and gave a smiling bow to an acquaintance. "Doesn't Mrs. Peck
look sweet tonight?" She designated the society editress of the _Morning
Trumpet_, whose fragile figure was encased in a pale blue Empire
costume. "And that lady over by the door, with the gold crown in her
hair, the stout one in red, is Mrs. Wheatley, a professional Delsarte
teacher. She's a great friend of mine and gives me Delsarte twice a
week."

And Miss. Genevieve Ryan nodded to the dispenser of "Delsarte," a large
and florid woman, who, taking her stand under a spreading palm tree,
began to declaim "The Portrait" of Owen Meredith, and in the recital of
the dead lady's iniquitous conduct the conversation was brought to a
close.

From its auspicious opening, Faraday's acquaintance with the Ryans
ripened and developed with a speed which characterizes the growth of
friendship and of fruit in the genial Californian atmosphere. Almost
before he felt that he had emerged from the position of a stranger he
had slipped into that of an intimate. He fell into the habit of visiting
the Ryan mansion on California Street on Sunday afternoons. It became a
custom for him to dine there _en famille_ at least once a week. The
simplicity and light-hearted good-nature of these open-handed and
kindly people touched and charmed him. There was not a trace of the snob
in Faraday. He accepted the lavish and careless hospitality of Barney
Ryan's "palatial residence," as the newspapers delighted to call it,
with a spirit as frankly pleased as that in which it was offered.

He came of an older civilization than that which had given Barney Ryan's
daugh