“Nonsense! Of course you can--what’s Estrada for, I’d like to know? The doctor particularly wanted you to come, too. He says there’s a lively bunch of young people this season.” “I know,” said Ginger. “He wrote and asked me, but I told him I was too busy.” She had the feeling that she did not care to be with a bunch of lively young people; she did not feel like a lively young person herself; she felt like a serious-minded proprietor of a big and busy ranch, and she meant to go east again in the winter and feel a little like Mary Wiley. “Well, you’re not too busy--that’s too absurd for words, Ginger--and you are going! Let’s see--this is Tuesday. You can telephone Manuela to send your riding things straight to the Big Sur, and whatever else you think you’ll need, and we’ll go direct from here, say, Friday--I’d like to get a facial and a henna rinse before I go off to the wilderness. The doctor said he’d drive in to Monterey for us.” “Oh, Aunt Fan, you go without me, please! I--some way, I’m not in the mood for it.” “‘Mood for it,’” mocked her aunt, severely. “Since when have you been having moods, I’d like to inquire? You talk like a girl in a sentimental novel. No; I won’t stir a step without you, Ginger McVeagh, and if you have any gratitude, after the way I traipsed across the continent with you last year--” then, as her niece looked dangerously unmoved, she came closer to her and spoke in a breathless whisper. “Listen, Ginger, I haven’t told you the real reason, and I didn’t intend to, but you’re so stubborn I see I’ll have to.” Aunt Fan had out-sizes in speech as well as in hose. “The fact is, I’ve made up my mind to--_make up my mind about the doctor_!” Ginger frowned. “To make up your mind--I don’t understand, Aunt Fan.” “Then you’re a ninny-hammer if you don’t,” said her aunt, complacently. “You must know--every one else in California does--that he’s admired me for years--before I married Jim--even before I married Henry! I feel this way about it; I’m not getting any younger; if ever I’m going to--take another step, now’s the time. I wouldn’t make a spectacle of myself as I hear Jim Featherstone’s doing, but a suitable, dignified--I tell you, Ginger,” sudden tears shone in her very blue eyes, “there’s nothing funny about the last years of your life alone. I shall be all right for ten years more, and then--fancywork, chimney corners, solitaire!” She began to cry a little. Her niece put an arm about her as far as it would go. “Oh, don’t cry, Aunt Fan! You’ll always have me, you know. We’ll do a lot of things together--travel, spend winters in the east--” But her aunt shook her head vigorously, producing a small, pale pink handkerchief and delicately drying her tears. “It isn’t the same, as you’ll know some day. Well, will you or won’t you come with me?” “I’ll come with you for a little while, Aunt Fan; a week, perhaps.”