"Oh," said the Official, "if you have to leave town, it can't be helped. But if you should stay in San Francisco and refuse to go out with him again, it might hurt his feelings." "Good!" returned my companion. "We won't go until to-morrow." CHAPTER XL NEW YORK AGAIN On my first night in San Francisco I sat up late, unpacking and distributing my things about my room; it was early morning when I was ready to retire, and it occurred to me that I had better leave a call. "Please call me at nine," I said to the telephone operator. "Nine o'clock," she repeated, and in a voice like a caress, added: "Good-night." It was very pleasant to be told good-night, like that, even though the sweet voice was strange, and came over a wire; for my companion and I had been traveling for a long, long time, and though the strangers we had met had been most hospitable, and though many of them had soon ceased to be strangers, and had become friends, and though we had often said--and not without sincerity--that we "felt very much at home," we had now reached a state of mind in which we realized that, to say one "feels at home" when one is not actually at home, is, after all, to stretch the truth a little. I must have gone to sleep immediately and I knew nothing more until I was awakened in the morning by the tinkle of the telephone. I jumped out of bed and answered. "Good-morning, Mr. Street," came a voice even sweeter than that of the night before. "Nine o'clock." As I may have mentioned previously, I do not, as a rule, feel cheerful on the moment of arising, especially in a strange room, a strange hotel, and a strange city. But the pleasant personal note contained in that morning greeting, the charming tone in which it was delivered, and perhaps, in addition, the great warm patch of melted California gold which lay upon the carpet near my window--these things combined to make me feel awake, alive and happy, at the beginning of the day. Every night, after that, I left a call, whether I really wished to be called, or not, just for the sake of the "good-night," and the "good-morning" with my name appended. For it is very pleasant to be known, in a great hotel, as something more than a mere number. I said to myself, "That morning operator has learned from the papers that I am here. She has probably read things I have written, and is interested in me. Doubtless she boasts to her friends: 'Julian Street, the author, is stopping down at the hotel. I call him every morning. He has a pleasant voice. I wish I could see him, once.'" Because of modesty I did not mention this flattering attention to my companion until the day before we left San Francisco, and then I was only induced to speak of it by something which occurred when we were shopping.