of the game; for he, too, was a
Californian, and honour was concerned.

That night, her spirit illumined by the unearthly glory of a lunar
rainbow, Angela went to her room with a faint sense of anticlimax, in the
discomfort she expected. Then, making a light, she saw foaming over the
coverlet a froth of lace and film of cambric. Almost it might have been
woven from the moon-rainbow. But pinned on to a sleeve-knot of pale pink
ribbon was a slip of paper; and on the slip of paper were a few words in a
woman's handwriting: "Compliments of California to Mrs. May."

XXIV

THE BEST THING IN HER LIFE

A faint fragrance of roses haunted the mysterious "nighty," filled the
room, and mingled with Angela's dreams. All night long she walked in a
garden of sleeping flowers, "sweet shut mouths of rosebuds, and closed
white lids of lilies"; and it seemed but a short night, for in her dreams
she had half the garden still to explore--in searching for Nick, it
seemed--when a rap, sharp as the breaking of a tree branch, made her start
up in bed. A dim impression was in her mind that a voice had accompanied
the rap, and had made an unsympathetic announcement which meant the need
to get up. But the only really important thing was to run back into the
garden and find Nick Hilliard, as otherwise she might miss him forever. So
Angela shut her eyes, and hurried down dim labyrinths, where she had been
wandering before, and called to Nick: "I'm here again. Where are you?"

The rosebuds and lilies were still there, fast asleep, yet somehow the
garden was different and not so beautiful. A handsome woman, with black
hair, was gathering the flowers, pretending not to see Angela, and Nick
had gone. A girl's voice somewhere was saying, "Prince di Sereno! What a
romantic name."

It only seemed a minute since the first knock, but now there came
another; and this time the announcement was even more disturbing:
"Breakfast's ready!" Immediately after, as if to show that no arguing
would avail, steps went clanking along the veranda, heavy at first,
fainter with distance, and at last a convulsive banging on the door of
some other unfortunate.

Now Angela wished no longer to return to the garden of sleep. She was glad
to get up, bathe in haste and dress breathlessly, for she had asked to be
called at five in order to breakfast before six. In a strenuous quarter of
an hour she had arrived at the blouse-fastening stage of her toilet; and,
as luck