"I have had what is called a full day," said Gwynne, as he sank into a chair beside Isabel. "Lunch with half a dozen of the cleverest and most strenuous men I ever met--and not at Hofer's house, by the way, but out at the Cliff House, up in a tower, where we had a superb view of the ocean and Golden Gate; then motored about the city for three hours, then down to Burlingame for dinner, then back to supper at one of the restaurants. After over a year of social suspension I hardly knew how to behave, especially to all the pretty women I met at the Club House at Burlingame,--who seemed to expect me to pay them compliments and flirt desperately. I feel worn out, and on the verge of sighing for my lonely ranch." "But you have enjoyed yourself," said Isabel, smiling. "It has done you a lot of good. You must grow straight downward to your roots. Then, when you shoot up again you will be a real American." Gwynne made a wry face. "Not yet. Mrs. Hofer's father, Mr. Toole (who is now retired and spends most of his time in about the most luxurious library I ever saw--we alighted in it for a few moments before swooping down to Burlingame) quoted Byron to me and is well up in English politics. There were several London newspapers and reviews on the table. Moreover, at the luncheon, Elton Gwynne was actually discussed for a few moments. All of which gave me pangs of homesickness. But although they are all sufficiently versed in British politics, their interest is very casual. Even national matters don't concern them particularly. What absorbs them is the redemption of San Francisco; and after my experiences last night I can't say I am surprised. The sort of municipal government that permits and battens upon an unlimited variety of open vice must devour the entire city in time. Mr. Toole informed me, in the holy calm of his library, that reform is impossible; and certainly the professional grafters seem to be one of the few productions of this State whose energy is not demoralized by the climate. But that must make the fight more interesting. And hardly a degree less menacing is this gigantic octapus of labor unionism--of inexcusable socialism. Well, we shall see! It makes one tingle." "And do you never, in your inmost, contemplate returning to England?" asked Isabel, curiously.