a
thousand other things which put him outside the pale of the men she knew.
She would not listen when a sarcastic voice within defended Nick,
sneering, "Oh, yes, Prince Paolo di Sereno and some of his friends are
_far_ superior to Mr. Hilliard, aren't they?"

Irritated because the "forest creature" had become of paramount importance
in her life when he should remain the merest episode, she was surprised
and even horrified to find herself despairing because he had done what
she forced him to do. She could have cried for what he must be thinking of
her. She wanted to go on seeing his faults, but in her changing mood she
could see only her own. "He is one of the noblest gentlemen in the world,"
something inside her said. "You aren't worthy to black his boots!" Then
the picture of herself blacking them--the shiny ones that were too
tight--rose before her eyes, and she was afraid that she was going to
laugh--or else to sob. Anyhow, he was gone, and there was an end of it
all!

But when afternoon came, things were different again. In Falconer's
private car, where she, Princess di Sereno, was the chaperon, and Sonia
Dobieski was queen, Angela was so desperately homesick for Nick Hilliard
that she did not see how she could get on without his--friendship. "After
all," she reminded herself, excusing her inconsistency, "_I_ didn't send
him away. He went of his own accord. He might be here now. He refused to
come with us. It's only that we oughtn't to be rushing about together any
more in that absurd way. It won't do. Things keep happening--unexpected
things--like last night. Still if he comes to San Francisco--if he asks
again to 'show me the sights' I don't see why I shouldn't say yes--just to
so small a favour--and to make up--in case his feelings are hurt."

In her heart she knew that his feelings were hurt. But had she not hurt
her own?

There was a piano in the drawing-room part of the car. Sonia was singing
to Falconer. They had forgotten Mrs. May, without whose martyred presence
they could not have had this happiness. The soul of the Russian girl
seemed to pour out with her voice, as upon a tide. The sorrow and pain of
her past exile were in it at first: then it rose to the joy of new life in
a new world. The sweetness of the voice and all that it meant of love
after anguish stabbed Angela as she listened in the distance, like a knife
dipped in honey.

XVII

SEVENTEEN-MILE DRIVE

Things were better at Del M