Just then a tall, dark young man walked into the ship-restaurant, taking off a sombrero. Angela gathered herself together, ready to administer a gentle snub. But she might have saved herself the trouble. It was not Nick. She could have cried with disappointment. Snubs of the past were coming home to roost. There was time to buy California jewels in the bazaars--tourmalines and pearl-blisters--before the car came up, purring sweetly, and looking innocent as a cat gorged with canary birds. Mr. Sealman was so sure that nothing could or would go wrong ever again that Angela had no heart to receive him coldly. They started off for a run through bungalow-land, and the Model conducted itself like a newly converted sinner. "I've been thinking out a dandy plan, while I was tinkering on the auto," remarked Mr. Sealman in an engaging manner. "What do you say to doing a tour of the Missions? You know, I guess, there's a chain of 'em, and the fine thing it would be to see the lot by road! I tell you, this little auto's going to be all right--all right. It'd be the best kind of a stunt for a lady from Europe; and if the papers got hold of it, I bet they'd give us a bang-up notice--a photo too, maybe, you could send your friends on the other side." Angela shuddered. She could hardly bear even to hear this proposal from the codfish, for a pilgrimage to the Missions of California had been a dream of Franklin Merriam's. He and she were to have followed the footsteps of the Franciscan Fathers, stage by stage; and if a Mission here or there were falling into ruin, Merriam had talked of offering to restore it at his own expense. Now the money had gone to restore the Palazzo di Sereno, and to buy motors and aeroplanes and ladies' favours for the Prince of that name. Yet some day Angela meant to make the pilgrimage, when she had built her house and given herself a starting-point. "I've other things to do," she replied coldly. "I shall see only the Missions I may happen to pass on this tour." "Well, some folks'd ruther save this trip for a weddin' journey," Sealman suggested. "I suppose widows have weddin' trips, don't they?" He gazed thoughtfully at the gray coat and gray-veiled motor hat which Angela wore to protect her from the dust. She sat in front beside the chauffeur for the motion of the car was less there, but she decided that, if she were ever hypnotized into associating with the Model again, she would take the back seat. "The Missions for mine," he went on, when his passenger made no reply. "There's some prefers the Yosemite, but there's no motorin' there. And if I was a girl I wouldn't feel married without a motor. In the Yosemite there's; so much honeymoonin', the minute you see a lady with a man you put 'em down for bride and groom." Angela had cause to remember this remark later. "Speakin' of honeymoons, looks as if there'd been some around here," the codfish continued chattily.