, having no reasonable excuse, joined them. As they drove
through the woods Ila confided her engagement to young Washington, and
was kissed and congratulated in due form.

"I'm going to live in Paris," she announced. "No more California for me.
You might as well be on Mars, in the first place, and everybody cackles
over your private affairs, in the second. For the matter of that, you
haven't any."

"I think it's disloyal of you to desert California," said Tiny. "I have
a feeling that we should all keep together, and to the country."

"That's a very fine sentiment, but though I love you none the less, I
want to live. I intend to be the best-dressed American in Paris. That's
a reputation worth having."

"I'm going East to find a husband," said Rose, shamelessly. "There's no
one to marry here. Alan Rush would not have been half bad, but he might
as well be in an urn on Helena's mantel-piece. I like Eastern men best,
anyhow."

"Why not go to Southern California?" asked Tiny. "It's not so far as New
York; and there are always plenty of them there."

"I should feel like a ghoul,--man-hunting in One-lungdom, as Mr. Bierce
calls it. Besides, I'd rather die an old maid than have a sick man on my
hands for five minutes. I'm not heartless, but--well, we've all had our
experiences with fathers and brothers. A sick man's an anomaly, somehow:
he doesn't fit into a woman's imagination."

"I'm not going to marry at all," said Tiny. "Fancy what a lot of bother.
It's so comfortable just to drift along like this."

"Tiny," said Rose, "you're a Menlo Park poppy."

They had arrived at the station, the pretty station under its great oak,
and flanked by its beds of bloom. Eight or ten other equipages were
there, waiting for the "Daisy train,"--the fast train from town which on
Saturday afternoons carried many San Franciscans to Monterey.

The women were in their bright summer attire and full of chatter; as the
train was not due for some moments, several got out of their carriages
and went to other carriages to gossip. It was a very lively and
agreeable scene: there being no outsiders, they were like one large
family. In the middle of the large open space beside the platform stood
several of the phaetons and waggonettes, whose horses stepped high at
sight of the engine. On the far side was a row of Chinese wash-houses,
in whose doors stood the Mongolians, no less picturesque than the
civilisation across the way. Behind them was the