Yerba sighed. "No; there was another, who was president of a bank, but that was also to be official if he died. I used to like him, he seemed to be the only gentleman among them; but it appears that he is dreadfully improper; shoots people now and then for nothing at all, and burst up his bank--and, of course, he's impossible, and, as there's no more bank, when he dies there'll be no more trustee." "And there's the third, you know--a stranger, who never appears?" suggested the younger girl. "And who do you suppose HE turns out to be? Do you remember that conceited little wretch--that 'Baby Senator,' I think they called him--who was in the parlor of the Golden Gate the other morning surrounded by his idiotic worshipers and toadies and ballot-box stuffers? Well, if you please, THAT'S Mr. Paul Hathaway--the Honorable Paul Hathaway, who washed his hands of me, my dear, at the beginning!" "But really, Yerba, I thought that he looked and acted"-- "You thought of nothing at all, Milly," returned Yerba, with authority. "I tell you he's a mass of conceit. What else can you expect of a Man--toadied and fawned upon to that extent? It made me sick! I could have just shaken them!" As if to emphasize her statement, she grasped one of the long willowy branches of the enormous rose-bush where she stood, and shook it lightly. The action detached a few of the maturer blossoms, and sent down a shower of faded pink petals on her dark hair and yellow dress. "I can't bear conceit," she added. "Oh, Yerba, just stand as you are! I do wish the girls could see you. You make the LOVELIEST picture!" She certainly did look very pretty as she stood there--a few leaves lodged in her hair, clinging to her dress, and suggesting by reflection the color that her delicate satin skin would have resented in its own texture. But she turned impatiently away--perhaps not before she had allowed this passing vision to impress the mind of her devoted adherent--and said, "Come along, or that dreadful man will be out on the veranda again." "But, if you dislike him so, why did you accept the invitation to meet him here at luncheon?" said the curious Milly. "I didn't accept; the Mother Superior did for me, because he's the Mayor of San Francisco visiting your uncle, and she's always anxious to placate the powers that be. And I thought he might have some information that I could get out of him. And it was better than being in the convent all day. And I thought I could stand HIM if you were here." Milly gratefully accepted this doubtful proof of affection by squeezing her companion's arm. "And you didn't get any information, dear?"