of the meagre encouragement
and plodded on.

XXIX

It was early in the fourth year that Henry James swooped down upon San
Francisco. He arrived in the train of Helena's triumphant return, under
her especial patronage. Not that a few choice spirits in California had
not discovered James for themselves long since; but James as a definite
entity, known and approved by Society, awaited the second advent of
Helena. He immediately became the fad; rather, Society split into two
factions and was threatened with disruption. One young woman of the
disapproving camp even went so far as to call an ardent advocate a
"Henry James fool." All of which was doubtless due to the fact that the
traditions of action still lingered in California. Strangely enough,
Tiny, who returned almost immediately after Helena, was one of the first
to take Mr. James under her small but determined wing. She regarded
well-read people as an unnecessary bore, and ambition of any sort as
unsuited to the Land of the Poppy, but she had a feminine faith in
exceptions, and joined the cult with something like enthusiasm. It was
she who introduced him to Magdalena.

Magdalena cared nothing for American latter-day authors, and gave no
heed to Helena's emphatic approval of Mr. James. In fact, she and Helena
had so much else to talk about that they found little leisure for books.
Helena had been abroad again, and the belle of a winter in Washington.
She was more beautiful than ever, and, although somewhat subdued, was
full of plans for the future. Her first ball--she arrived at the end of
the winter season--determined that her supremacy, socially and
sentimentally, was unshaken. Immediately after, she bought an old
Spanish house in the northern redwoods and provided new surprises for
her little world. But there is no more room for Helena in this
chronicle. Perhaps, if history shapes itself around her, she may one day
have a chronicle to herself.

Tiny called on Magdalena one afternoon with two volumes of Henry James
under her arm. She took to her toes as the front door closed, and ran
down the long hall and up the stair to Magdalena's room.

"I feel like a book agent," she said, trying not to pant, and hoping
Magdalena would go down to the door with her when she left. "But you
really must read him, 'Lena. He's so fascinating: I think it's because
nothing ever happens, and that's so like life. I think I must always
have felt Henry Jamesish, and it seems to