reason, she suddenly found impossible.  This was very likely Falconer’s way of coming to the rescue.  The excuse seemed a fairly good one, and the invitation was calculated to save sensitive feelings.  But it was not quite good enough—­or the feelings were too sensitive.  Nick thanked Falconer, and said that he was sorry to miss such a pleasure, but could not trust Billy to drive the Bright Angel:  he must stick to the helm.

When Angela came back in a few minutes with Sonia Dobieski, Falconer was still trying to persuade Hilliard to change his mind, proposing that, if Billy could not drive, the Bright Angel should be put upon a train.  For an instant Nick’s eyes sought Angela’s, but she was tucking a rose into her belt, and did not look up.  Her lowered eyelids and long lashes gave her a look of deliberate remoteness.  Nick again expressed his gratitude, but was “afraid he couldn’t manage, although he would like it mighty well.”  This time he made no excuse for his refusal, and Falconer let the subject drop.  He saw that something was wrong, and feared that he had been selfish in suggesting an idea which would give him Sonia for a guest.  Certainly Mrs. May had accepted readily; but now there was a jarring note.  He was sorry, but could do nothing more, except to express regret that Hilliard would not be of the party on board the McCloud.  Mademoiselle Dobieski followed suit, and, in common civility, Angela had to say what they said whether she meant it or not.  She had to look up, too, when she spoke, and Nick’s eyes met hers.  She blushed like a schoolgirl, and glanced away, adding quickly that she would have liked his advice as well as Falconer’s, at Monterey.  “You know, Mr. Falconer thinks I shall want to buy land along the Seventeen-Mile Drive, and build my house there,” she said.  “I wonder?  Since Santa Barbara, I’ve been thinking I might prefer the North.  But I can’t tell, one bit.  There’s something about the climate of California—­I suppose it must be the climate!—­which makes me in two minds about the same things, every day.”

Nick was not sure whether to take this as an excuse or a stab.  He was sure of but one thing.  Something hideous had come between him and his angel, while he slept and dreamed of her; and nothing would ever be the same again.  Of course it must be his fault; and if he were used to women he would perhaps see what he had done that a woman would disapprove.  Or perhaps, even so, he would be in the dark, for there were all the other women in the world, and there was Angela May.  She was a law unto herself.  It looked just now as if she were a hard and cruel law, but she must not be blamed.  She had a right to break with him.  She had promised nothing.

“I think,” said Nick, when he had learned that the McCloud was to be “hitched” to a train, in the afternoon, “I’d better be getting on.  I might as well say good-bye to you all now.”  When he shook hands with Mrs. May, Falconer and Sonia Dobieski turned aside a little, speaking to each other.  “I hope you understand, Mr. Hilliard, and don’t think I’m being rude after all your kindness,” Angela said, melting a little; “I could hardly refuse them, when it was a question of chaperoning a newly engaged couple; and I thought you would join us, of course.”