He went one evening to the house of Mrs. Hunt McLane, a beautiful young Creole who held the reins of the infant city's society in her small determined hands. Born into the aristocracy of Louisiana, she had grown up in the salon. Her husband had arrived in San Francisco at the period when a class of rowdies known as "The Hounds" were terrorising the city, and, when they were finally arrested and brought to trial, conducted the prosecution. The brilliant legal talent he displayed, the tremendous personal force which carried every jury he addressed, established his position at the head of the bar at once. His wife, with her wide knowledge of the world, her tact, magnetism, and ambition, found no one to dispute her social leadership. As Thorpe entered, she was standing at the head of the long parlour; and with her high-piled hair, _poudré_, her gown of dark-red velvet, and her haughty carriage, she looked as if she had just stepped from an old French canvas. She smiled brilliantly as Thorpe approached her, and he was made to feel himself the guest of the evening,--a sensation he shared with every one in the room. "I have not seen you for three days and seven hours," she said. "How are all your flirtations getting on?" "All my what?" "Dominga Earle is making frantic eyes at you," indicating, with a rapid motion of her pupils, a tall slender Mexican who undulated like a snake and whose large black fan and eyes were never idle. "'Lupie Hathaway is looking coldly expectant; and Nina Randolph, who was wholly animated a moment ago, is now quite listless. Not that you are to feel particularly flattered; you are merely something new. Turn over the pages,--Dominga is going to sing,--and I am convinced that she will surpass herself." Mrs. Earle was swaying on the piano stool. Her black eyes flashed a welcome to Thorpe, as he moved obediently to her side. Then she threw back her head, raised her eyebrows, dilated her nostrils, and in a ringing contralto sang a Spanish love-song. Thorpe could not understand a word of it, but inferred that it was passionate from the accompaniment of glance which played between himself and a tall blonde man leaning over the piano. When the song and its encore finished, she was immediately surrounded, and Thorpe slipped away. Miss Randolph was barricaded. He went over to Miss Hathaway, who sat between Hastings and another officer, _looking_ impartially at each. They were dismissed in a manner which made them feel the honour of her caprice. "That was good of you," said Thorpe, sinking into a chair opposite her. "It is rarely that one can get a word with you, merely a glance over three feet of shoulder."