"That's why there's so much emigration," replied Nick, gravely. "And I should be studying California through you, I suppose? I begin to see that you're a typical Californian." "No," Nick contradicted her. "You mustn't get hold of that impression. It wouldn't be playing the game for me to let you. The typical Californian's a very different man: a grand chap, and I reckon more like the sort you're used to." Angela smiled. "Describe him." "Well, I'm not much at description. You'll meet the kind I mean when you get to San Francisco, if you don't before. The two Morehouses are the right sort; and lots of others. John Falconer's one of the best. Have you ever heard of him?" "Yes," said Angela. "I remember his name. My--friends of mine have spoken of him, though he was younger, and made his fame later." "I should like you to come across him," said Nick, full of enthusiasm for the man he admired, and devoid of small jealousy. "Falconer was one of the grandest lawyers California ever had; and in a way he made himself, though he came of the best blood we've got." (Nick would not have dreamed of mentioning that his own blood was as good. He, like most men of the West, thought more of his horses' pedigree than his own, and he would as readily have boasted of his handsome looks as of his father's people--the people who had disowned that father, and sent him to starve. But now he was boasting of and for California. That was legitimate.) "Falconer's the wisest and most far-seeing politician we have," he went on, "and deserves his luck--the money's he's made and the name he's won. He's high up on one of our biggest railroads, too, since he gave up law because he'd no time to follow it; and he's not much over forty now. That's California, Mrs. May. That's typical. Falconer's as different from a rough fellow like me, as--as I hope I'm different from Sealman." "You're a loyal friend," Angela said, admiring the fire in his eyes and the glow on his face as she would have admired an impressionist sketch for a portrait by Sargent. "Only this man ought to be a fresco," she told herself as she followed out the picture-simile. "He's too big and spirited and unconventional to be put into a frame." "Oh, I'm not a personal friend of Falconer's," Nick hastened to explain. "Wish I were! I've met him when he's been to the Gaylor ranch--the ranch I want you to visit. But I expect he'd hardly remember me. And now you see that I'm not typical, maybe you'll think there's no place for me on your map. But I have my uses. I'm warranted sure and sound. And wouldn't I just be ready to die tryin', if you'd let me, to give you the time of your life in California?" "I've always heard that Californian men are chivalrous and kind." "Oh, kind! That's a funny word." "And these plans you draw for me are--are the sort of thing to make a woman feel glad there are men in the world willing to take so much trouble----"