at The Mission, a generic term in these days
for the valley under the shadow of Twin Peaks, so sparsely populated by
the _padres_. There were still a few large wooden houses, surrounded by
grounds, that looked like country seats in the midst of that wilderness
of cheap and hideous streets; built perhaps thirty or forty years
before, when "The Mission" was a suburb, and for old affection's sake
still inhabited in spite of a thousand drawbacks. Isabel approached this
place in a fever of anticipation, for it was none other than the old
estate of Juan Moraga, and through a grille in its vanished adobe wall
Concha Argueello had held tryst with her Russian lover, Rezanov.

Into this sheltered valley the trade winds and the fog came so seldom
that, although it was a November day, the host had no hesitation in
entertaining his guests on the lawn, with rugs under foot and a canopy
to protect the complexions of the women. Here, Isabel found members of
nearly every set the city had ever possessed: Mrs. Trennahan, like
herself of the old Spanish stock, and her New York husband; Anne
Montgomery and two or three others of the second regime; Catalina Shore,
with her beautiful half Indian face and English husband; these few with
a repose of manner that looked old-fashioned against the lightly poised
figures and incessant chatter of the younger girls. And there was an
even greater variety of garb. Several were dressed for the season in
velvet and furs: one wore an organdie blouse and hat; another had
hastily donned a checked travelling suit; there was no doubt that Miss
Montgomery had bought her simple brown frock already made, and perhaps
at a sale; her neighbor wore a black lace dress with a fur boa. The
majority were excessively smart, whatever their vagaries, and Mrs.
Hofer, most of all, in several shades of gray; not only becoming to her
dark hair and bright color, but suggesting the natural plumage of a
bird; she was one of those women that look so well in whatever they wear
that it is difficult to imagine them in anything else. Isabel, perhaps,
although the sharp eye of a woman would have detected the absence of the
hand of a maid in her toilette, more nearly solved the problem of a
spring day in mid-winter, with her frock of white serge and large black
hat covered with feathers.

She sat between the "Reform Mayor," whose guest she was, and the
"Militant Editor," neither in the highest spirits after their recent and
unexpected d