The place began to take on in her eyes a curious, startling individuality.  She began to think of the city not as a town, but as a person.  A woman, young, lovely, and beloved, who had gone gaily to bed one night to dream of her lovers, her jewels, and her triumphs.  While she lay smiling in her beauty sleep, this woman had been rudely aroused by a cry of fire and shouts that warned her to fly.  Dazed, she dressed in wildest haste, putting on all the gorgeous jewels she could find, for fear of losing them forever, and wrapping herself in exquisite laces.  But in her hurry, she had been obliged to fling on some very queer garments rather than not be clothed at all; and, losing her head, had contrived to save a few worthless things.  All this the woman had done, laughing through her fear of death, because nothing could conquer her brave spirit and because she knew that, scared and destitute, near to death, she would be rescued at last, loved better than ever for her sufferings, and by and by would be more regal than before.

Now, here was this vital creature, rewarded for her faith by the worship and the prowess of her lovers.  What matter if she still wore some of the odd things she had picked up in a hurry?  Gowns better than she had ever boasted were being fashioned for her; and the contrast between a tiara showing under a sunbonnet, a scarf of rose-point covering a cotton belt, and diamond-buckled shoes slipped on to torn stockings, made her beauty more piquant, as she sat watching the work of her lovers, on her throne by the sea.  No wonder that the men who adored such a woman were brave as she! generous and reckless as she, and on fire with energy and courage.

“But the beautiful woman worked, too, to help her lovers,” Nick answered Angela’s little allegory.  “When she was wounded, she said, ’Just give me a hand up and I won’t die.  You shall have a big reward for all you do—­only hurry, for I can’t bear to be seen like this by any one but you.’”

“And what did her lovers say?” Angela asked.

“‘We’ll die for you, gladly.  You have our hearts.  You can have our hearts’ blood.’” And his eyes spoke to her of himself.

* * * * *

The first day was tiring, nevertheless Angela went out to Oakland that night to the Greek theatre, where a classic tragedy was to be performed; and next day it was the Presidio and Golden Gate Park.  They lunched at the Cliff House, and fed the barking sea-lions on the seal rocks.  Then came a few hours’ rest:  and Chinatown was saved as a bonne-bouche for the evening.  They dined in the most stately and expensive of the Chinese restaurants—­“no chop suey house,” as their waiter said, where they entered through the kitchen to see cakes being baked, and pots of rice in the act of cooking.  Upstairs the walls were adorned with golden flowers, panel paintings by artists of China, and strange dragons, and Buddhas that nodded on shelves.  There were open-work screens, and tables and chairs of black, carved teakwood.  Angela would have been aghast had she dreamed that the queer dinner, which she liked and laughed at, cost Nick more than a hundred dollars, but luckily she was not initiated in the rarity of bird’s-nest soup or other Chinese delicacies.