"No, she's a very silent girl," Miss Toland agreed, with that little warmth at her heart the thought of Julia always brought. "You imported her, Sanna?" "Oh, no. She's a Californian." "Really? And what do we pay her?" "Forty." "Forty? And didn't we pay that awful last creature sixty-five?" "Seventy-five--yes." Miss Toland smiled wisely. "But she had been specially trained, Tillie." "Oh, specially trained!" Mrs. von Hoffmann, flinging a mass of rich sables about her throat, began to work on the fingers of her white gloves. "This girl's worth two of her," she asserted, "with her nice little silent ways and her little uniform!" "I'll see that she's treated fairly," Miss Toland promised. "Well, do! Don't lose her, whatever you do! I suppose she has beaus?" "Not Julia! She's entirely above the other sex. No; there's a young Jew in Sacramento who writes her now and then, but that's a mere boy-and-girl memory." "Well, let's hope it remains one!" And the great lady, sailing out to her waiting coupe, stopped on the outer steps to speak to Miss Page, who was tying up some rain-beaten chrysanthemums in the little front garden. "How crushed they are! Do you like flowers, Miss Page?" "Oh, yes," smiled Julia, looking like a flower herself in the clear twilight. "You must come and see Mr. von Hoffmann's orchids some day," Mrs. von Hoffmann volunteered. Julia smiled again, but did not speak. The older woman glanced up and down the desolate street, and shuddered. "Dreadful neighbourhood!" she said with a rueful smile and a shake of the head, and climbing into her carriage, she was gone. Julia looked about her, but found the neighbourhood only interesting and friendly, as usual, and so returned to her flowers. When her chrysanthemums were trim and secure once more, perhaps--if this were one of the club evenings--she put on her long coat, and the hat with the velvet rose, and went upon a little shopping expedition, a brown twine bag dangling from one of her ungloved arms. The bakery was always bright and odorous, and at this hour filled with customers. The perspiring Swedish proprietress and a blond-haired daughter or two would be handling the warm loaves, the flat, floury pies, and the brown cookies as fast as hands could move; the cash register behind the counter rang and rang, the air was hot, the windows obscured with steam. Men were among the customers, but the Weber girls had no time to flirt now. They rustled the thin large sheets of paper, snapped the flimsy pink string, lifted a designated pie out of the window, or weighed pound cake with serious swiftness.