u thinking about?" she questioned him almost sharply.

Nick laughed, embarrassed. "I was thinking some words that sound like
poetry--or no, they were thinking themselves. Night in her eyes, morning
in her hair! Because standing like you do, Mrs. May, a kind of gold
powder wreath seems to be floating around your head."

She laughed too. "You must have been reading poetry since I left you!"

"No, that came out of my head. But I've been thinking a whole lot. About a
good many things--only most of them were about you, or came back to you if
they didn't begin there. Don't you know how one idea can sort of run
through all your thoughts?"

"I know," said Angela. Just so had the idea of him been running through
all her thoughts these last few days. "But," she added with an effort,
"why should you have been thinking of me? We're such--_new_ friends."

"Yes," Nick admitted, "but you can't always account for your thoughts."

"Of course not. And I'm grateful for a few of yours. Have you been
enjoying San Francisco? Do sit down. And would you mind putting on the
electricity?"

"Must I? It's beautiful like this."

"Very well. Leave it so."

She sat on a sofa, still with her back to the window, and Nick took a
chair facing the light.

"I've had a feeling on me of waiting," said Nick. "Just that. I haven't
gone around much, though this is the first time I've been in San
Francisco, except for a day, since the city's grown up after the fire. I
was waiting to see if you'd let me show you things, as you----"

"As I--what?" Angela asked, when he paused.

"I was going to say, as you partly promised. But that wouldn't be fair,
because you didn't really promise anything."

If he had claimed a right, it would have been easy to say that it didn't
exist, but he made things harder by claiming nothing. Still, she went on:
"No, of course, I couldn't promise. As I'm situated now, it's difficult to
make plans. However, if you've really waited for me, it was kind, and
there's no reason why I shouldn't ask you to show me San Francisco.
Already, even though I haven't gone about at all, except just 'taxying' up
to the hotel, I can see it's wonderful. From this window, it's like
looking out on Rome, with all its hills--Rome transplanted to the sea. And
I know you, and don't know Mr. Morehouse, who's my only other resource
here. Besides, he's a busy man; and if you're busy, you pretend not to
be."

"I'm having a vacation," Nick explained.