She had ordered him home and he had apparently obeyed; which seemed unkind and poor-spirited, and altogether unlike him. Ever until now he had been at hand to save her from all that was disagreeable. Even at Los Angeles he had jumped off the train to circumvent Mr. Millard. His ways had been like the ways of story-book heroes, who, by some extraordinary coincidence, invariably appear in time to rescue the heroine from a villain, a mad bull, a runaway horse or a burning house. The only difference was that Mr. Hilliard could not possibly be the hero of this story, and his opportune arrival was, on his own confession, never a coincidence. He came on purpose; and that was bad taste. But as he had done it so often, why couldn't he have transgressed just once again, to rescue her from Sealman? She thought of the tall forest creature with yearnings, which interfered with her appetite for sand-dabs. He might unobtrusively have stayed, she thought, and put himself at her service. Not the most clinging Old Man of the Sea could continue to cling if that square-chinned bronze statue pointed out the wisdom of letting go. But no doubt _he_ was at home near Bakersfield, before this--Angela seldom named Nick in her mind--otherwise she must have run across him somewhere that first day at the City of the Angels when she had spun gaily from park to park, the Model for once behaving well. Almost, she had expected to see him the next morning when the car refused to move, and she had taken a trolley car, halfway to San Gabriel. It would have seemed appropriate, somehow, to meet him strolling in front of the Mission, his hands in his pockets, gazing up at the beautiful half-ruined facade, with its delicate chain-armour of gold lichen, its tower, and its flowers like blossoming barnacles. Angela knew now that she had felt certain of meeting Hilliard "accidentally," in the Mission church. That while she walked beside the elderly Spanish verger, chatting of his native Cordova, listening to tales of Father Juniperra Serra, Father Somera, and the legend of the Indians with the miraculous portrait of the Madonna, she had started more than once at a footfall, fancying it that of her lost hero. Of course, if he had ventured to show himself at any time she would have known that it was no coincidence; and she would have lifted her eyebrows in silent reproach, talking more earnestly to the verger, who had been happy because she knew Cordova and all his beloved Spanish cathedrals. Nevertheless, the bronze statue would have fitted well into the scene, and something lacked because it was absent. "I do think he might write from his ranch and acknowledge the money I sent him," she told herself now, neglecting the sand-dabs to stare through the galleon window at the floating seaweed on the tide-dark gold-green kelp, like lost laurel-wreaths torn from the brows of drowned divinities. "I posted the letter myself, that first day. He must have got it--if he _is_ at home."