Because I was more than half assured of this, I made a point of disputing it.

“She’s plastic, anyway; a nice little thing.”

“Is a nice little thing the right sort of a wife for a squatter?”

“If she loves him—­”

“Of course she loves him—­now.”

“Look at her pluck in coming out!”

“Pluck?  She has five sisters in Upper Tooting.”

“Surbiton.”

“I’m sure it’s Upper Tooting.”

“And she can make her own blouses.”

“Can she cook, can she milk a cow, can she keep a house clean?”

“Give her time!”

“Time?  I’d like to give her father six months.  What’s the use of jawing?  We’ve been aiding and abetting a crime.  We might have prevented this slaughter of the innocents.  What will that skin be like in one year from now?”

“If she were sallow, you would be less excited.”

We spent a few days in San Francisco; and then we returned to the ranch to give a luncheon in the bride’s honour.  The table was set under some splendid live-oaks in the home-pasture, which, in May, presents the appearance of a fine English park.  A creek tinkled at our feet, and beyond, out of the soft, lavender-coloured haze, rose the blue peaks of the Santa Lucia mountains.

“Reminds one a little of the Old Country,” I remarked to Angela, who was all smiles and quite conscious of being the most interesting object in the landscape.

“Oh, please, don’t speak of England!”

Her pretty forehead puckered, and her mouth drooped piteously.  Then she laughed, as she launched into a vivid description of her first attempt to bake bread.  Whenever she spoke, I saw Jim’s large, slightly prominent eyes fix themselves upon her face.  His beaming satisfaction in everything she did or said would have been delightful had I been able to wean my thoughts from the place which he still believed to be —­Eden.  At intervals I heard him murmur, “This is rippin’!”

After luncheon, Angela asked to see the ranch-house, and almost as soon as we were out of hearing, she said with disconcerting abruptness—­

“Does your ranch pay?” She added half-apologetically, “I do so want to know.”

“It doesn’t pay,” I answered grimly.

“You are not going—­behind?” she faltered, using the familiar phrase of the country in which she had spent as yet but three weeks.

“We are going behind,” I answered, angry with her curiosity:  not old enough or experienced enough to see beneath it fear and misery.  Angela said nothing more till we passed into the house.  Then, with lack-lustre eyes, she surveyed our belongings, murmuring endless commonplace phrases.  Presently she stopped opposite a photograph of a girl in Court dress.

“What a lovely frock!” she exclaimed, with real interest.  “I do wish I’d been presented at Court.  Who is she?  Oh, a cousin.  I wonder you can bear to look at her.”