They had passed through the library and entered the conservatory: a small forest of palms, great ferns, and young orange-trees; brought, Miss Randolph explained, from Southern California. Chinese lanterns swung overhead. Rustic chairs and sofas, covered with the skins of panthers, wild cats, and coyotes, were grouped with much discretion. Miss Randolph threw herself into a chair and let her head drop against the yellow skin on the back. Thorpe drew his chair close in front of her. In a moment he discovered that her lids were inclined to droop, and that there were lines about her mouth. "You are tired," he said abruptly. "Shall I fetch you a glass of champagne?" "Oh, no; it wouldn't do me a bit of good. Hot rooms and dancing always tire me. I'm glad when the season is over. In another month or so we shall be going to Redwoods, our country home--about thirty miles south of San Francisco. You must come down with us; we have good shooting,--deer and quail in the mountains, and snipe and duck in the marshes." "You are very kind," he said, and his reply was as mechanical as her invitation. He knew that all but the edge of her mind was turned from him, and was sufficiently interested to wish to get down into her thought. He went on gropingly: "I will confide to you that army life bores me a good deal, and as I intend to spend six months in California, I shall travel about somewhat." Then he added abruptly: "You are utterly unlike an English girl." "I am a Californian. Blood does not go for much in this climate. You'll understand why, if you stay here long enough." "In what way is it so unlike other places? I feel the difference, but cannot define it." "It's the wickedest place on earth! I suppose there are wicked people everywhere, but California is a sort of headquarters. It seems to be a magnet for that element in human nature. I wish I had been born and brought up in England." "Why?" he asked, smiling but puzzled, and recalling Hastings' imaginings. "I never saw any one look less wicked than yourself. Are you wicked?" he added, audaciously. She flirted her fan at him, and her eyes danced so coquettishly that he no longer saw the drooping lids. "_Our_ wickedness takes the form of flirtation,--heartless and unprincipled. Ask Captain Hastings. We are all refusing him in turn. Talk to me about England, while I study you and determine which line to take. I haven't typed you yet--I never make the fatal mistake of generalising." As he answered the questions she put to him in rapid succession, his own impressions changed several times. He was charmed by her intelligence, occasionally by a flash of something deeper. Again, he saw only the thrilling beauty of her figure, and once something vibrated across his brain so fleeting that he barely realised it was an echo of the repulsion her mother had inspired. "Well? What are your conclusions?" she demanded suddenly. "I--what?" "You have been sizing me up. I want to know the result."