r. It had lost more than a
little of its aloof serenity, and his crest was visibly lowered. But on
the whole he was improved, for he had cut his hair, his lilting locks
having been too conspicuous a feature in the cartoons of _Punch_ and
_Vanity Fair_. But there was something subtly forlorn about him, and
Isabel's maternal promptings, once too active, but long moribund,
suddenly awakened.

They mounted the steep flight of steps to the house slowly, exchanging
ejaculatory remarks. When they reached the porch she motioned to a long
wicker chair.

"It is only ten," she said. "Luncheon will not be ready until one, and
my California hospitality demands that your entertainment shall begin at
once. Make yourself comfortable while I brew you a cup of Spanish
chocolate. I have actually one of the molinillos of our ancestors."

When she returned with the frothy and fragrant beverage he was standing
with his hands in his pockets staring down at the city. He turned
swiftly at the sound of her step on the wood, but something was rushing
to the back of his eyes, and once more Isabel had the singular
impression of hearing his spirit cry: "Oh God! Oh God!" But his lips
were hard pressed and his eyes became suddenly contemptuous, then
smiling.

"This is jolly of you," he said. "I have a weakness for
chocolate--cultivated during the winter I was in Munich with my tutor. I
never cared for beer--don't like anything bitter. Do you remember the
Cafe Luitpoldt, and all those little tables in the garden of the
Residenz--"

He paused and narrowed his eyes. Isabel had turned white. "I must hear
that story," he said, quietly. "You are my only friend out here. In a
way you have altered the whole course of my life. I shall always have a
sense of relationship with you quite different from anything I have ever
known. So there must be perfect confidence and openness between us. I
told you frankly the unpleasant finish of my episode with Mrs. Kaye. I
hate mystery. I saw you go white once before, when I tried to make you
talk about Munich; and the romantic Flora was full of surmises.
Confession is good for the soul, anyhow. I want the atmosphere
cleared--not out of curiosity--I don't care tuppence about other
people's affairs--but I don't know you! I must know you! I am always
conscious of a wall about you--and in this damned God-forsaken country I
must have one friend!" he burst out.

Isabel had quite recovered herself. "I will tell you everyth