ose to her on
the gallery stairs as if they were engaged in a desperate ballroom
flirtation. She must show him that she was not really a stupid,
sentimental person. She made up her mind that they must begin all over
again, the very first thing in the morning; and, true to her resolution,
she had, indeed, begun all over again. She had torn a hole in the net
which was binding them together--all through her own silly fault!

In her heart, she had wanted him to accept Falconer's invitation; but she
had not wanted him to know that she had wanted him. The thing was to give
the impression that she would be pleased if he went, and not miserable if
he refused. If they all went to Monterey together on Mr. Falconer's
private car, they would not be losing each other--as friends; they would
merely be adjusting their relations, which, owning to San Miguel, had
suddenly got dangerously out of hand.

It was only when Nick's back was turned, and he was going, that she saw
things from his point of view. Why had she not been clever enough to keep
to the happy medium and not make him think that he had done something
dreadfully wrong--that on second thoughts she was blaming him for last
night, and punishing him? Surely she might have managed better--she a
woman of the world, and he a mere "forest creature"?

But it was too late. The thing was done, and badly done. Angela saw
herself a worm, and Nick noble as a tall pine-tree of the mountains.
Still, it was best that the break should have come, one way or another.

"Why on earth should I care?" she asked herself angrily. '"We could never
go on having a real friendship, all our lives--I and a man like that. He's
a splendid fellow--of course, above me in lots of ways; but we're of
different worlds. I don't see how anything could change that. What a pity
it all is--not for my sake, but for his!" And she thought how awkward his
fit of shy self-consciousness had made him appear in contrast with a
cultured man, a cosmopolitan like Falconer. It was she who had made him
self-conscious. She knew that. But there was the fact. Falconer was a man
of her world. Nick Hilliard was not. It was sad that Nick, with his good
looks and intelligence and fine qualities, could not have had advantages
when a boy--could not have gone to a university or at least associated
with gentlefolk as their equal--which he was in heart. But now he had got
those slipshod ways of speaking he could never change. And there were