"Have you heard anything about me that would make you think I was deceitful?" "I have never spoken of you to any one except your father." "I can't understand you at all to-day. You're so changeable and moody, and sometimes so ill-humored." "What a dreadful afternoon you've had! I'm sorry." Then, with an abrupt change of tone: "Who picks up the leaves of the deodar and ties them up in those neat little bundles?" "I do--do you believe me?" She spoke with a sharpness he had never heard her use before. He broke out into sudden laughter that this time sounded genuine. Turning from the window, he came toward her and took her hand. "Are you angry?" he asked. "I don't wonder. Say the most disagreeable things you can think of, and they won't be more than I deserve." For the second time this afternoon she beamed over his restoration to good humor. "I'm not a very good person to quarrel with," she said, looking at him with soft, forgiving eyes, "though, as you see, I've got a temper." He gave her hand a little pressure and relinquished it, taking up his hat. "Accept a hundred apologies from me for my rudeness. Good-by." "You _were_ disagreeable," she admitted, as they went together into the hall. "You seemed as if you didn't believe half I said to you, and actually as if our good luck made you angry." Gault had opened the door, and his face was turned from her. "Oh, don't think that," he answered, as he stepped out on to the porch; "whatever gives you happiness adds to mine. Adios, señorita." The door closed after him, and Viola stood alone in the hall, smiling to herself. She made as if to watch him through one of the narrow panes of glass which formed small windows on either side of the portal, then suddenly drew back and shook her head. "That would be bad luck," she said, "and I'm too happy to risk bad luck." * * * * * It was a few days later than this that an opera company of some fame in southern France was encouraged by a successful Mexican season to run up to San Francisco. Californians are notoriously fond of music, and the small opera companies which wander through the West, not daring to measure their talents with the Eastern stars, generally can count on a profitable season by the Golden Gate. Bad scenery, absurd costumes, and indifferent acting do not damp the ardor of the Californian, who will go anywhere and undergo any small discomfort to hear passable singing. Mrs. Gault, who went every year or two to New York and found her ideas there, as she did her hats and dresses, derided the local taste for hearing unknown prima donnas as Leonora and Gilda. But her husband and Letitia overruled her in at least this one particular, and when opera came up from Mexico or across from New Orleans, she always went with them, and tried to look as bored as her animated features and lively style would permit.