ing winter--and amidst much
mock solemnity and many cheers, deposited into the chiselled crypt of
one of the great concrete blocks upon which the building would rest, a
strong-box containing three of Concha Argueello's Baja California pearls,
several family daguerreotypes, and the original deed of sale which had
transferred the property from the city to the first James Otis. When the
ceremony was over the contractor shook hands with her approvingly.

"That's as good a place as any for a deed of sale in this here town," he
remarked. "For no shake will ever budge them concrete pillars. They're
down to bed-rock. And no fire'll ever crack them, neither. We'll begin
on the steel frame to-morrow, and you must come down occasionally and
cheer us up. It'll be worth it. The Otis's goin' to be the cock o' the
walk. Better make up your mind to have them terra-cotta facings."

"Oh, they would not raise the rents, and would hardly be appreciated by
their present neighbors," said Isabel, lightly. "I am going to send you
a bottle of champagne to-night, and you must drink to the health of The
Otis."

The man promised fervently that he would, and then after ordering beer
from a neighboring saloon for the workmen, Isabel and her party motored
out to the beach beyond the Cliff House, where a number of old
street-cars had been converted into bath-houses, and disported
themselves in the waves until it was time to rush home and make ready
for the Mardi Gras ball.

This yearly function was given in the Institute of Art on Nob Hill, the
wooden Gothic mansion with bow-windows, erected in the Eighties by a
railroad millionaire who had barely survived his nimble victorious
assault upon Fortune. His widow had presented his "monument" to Art, and
now its graceful flimsy walls housed much that was valuable in canvas
and marble, and more that was worthless. Once a year, on the eve of
Lent, Society gave a Mardi Gras ball, and such of the artists as were
known to the elect decorated the rooms, and contributed certain
surprises. This year, partly out of compliment to the Leader and Miss
Otis, partly because the old Spanish spirit had been roaming through its
ancient haunts of late, the interior of the mansion was hung with red
and yellow. Isabel, in full Spanish costume, led the grand march with
young Hofer, who was dressed as a toreador, and supported the jeers of
his friends in the gallery with what fortitude he could summon: he was
plump and pink