ries and no architecture whatever, although the roof was mercifully
flat. It was painted white and surrounded by a broad veranda. The garden
was full of bare rosebushes and blooming chrysanthemums, but save for
two mournful eucalypti and a naked acacia, there was not a tree in
sight. Just behind were many out-buildings, stark and white.

"Is this where you live?" asked Gwynne, wonderingly. He had vaguely
pictured her in a romantic setting, a bit of California epitomized.

"It was like Uncle Hiram to sell off the prettiest parts, but I don't
bother about anything I can't help, and I have a lovely view opposite.
Where is that boy?" She raised her voice and called, "Chuma! Chuma!" and
in a moment a Japanese boy came running down to the pier.

"The two men spend Sunday in Rosewater, but I have trained my Jap to do
a little of everything," said Isabel, as they walked up to the house.
"He is one of the willing sort; most are not. Chuma is my cook and
butler and chambermaid--"

"Do you mean that you live here without any other woman?"

"Why not? No girl would stay in this lonely place. I should have to send
her in to Rosewater every night and get a second girl to keep her
company. Mac--who was with Uncle Hiram before I was born--sleeps in the
house. It was a hotel forty years ago, by-the-way, and is still known as
Old Inn. That was in the days of picturesque ruffianism, and there are
terrible stories about the house, but no ghosts."

It had been decided that Gwynne should dine with Isabel and spend the
night at the hotel in Rosewater. Isabel had telephoned to her patient
Jap, and there was a log fire in the "parlor"--now transformed into a
comfortable living-room. Gwynne looked about him with considerable
curiosity while Isabel was up-stairs dressing. The walls were "ceiled"
with redwood and hung with the photographs she had accumulated in her
travels, a motley collection of many climes, from the snows of the Alps
to the patios of Seville; all, she had informed him, with a personal
association: "she was no photograph fiend." Several artist's sketches
arrested her guest's attention and he wondered what her life in Paris
had been. He fancied that her three years abroad were full of curious
chapters, most of them untold; but although she mystified him he could
not associate her with license of any sort. There was even a hint of
austerity about her, as if she drew strength from her Puritan
forefathers.

It was patent, howev