But Nick was angry and thwarted—­angry with himself because he had been a fool, and thwarted because he remained as before, handicapped by his own ignorance.  In spite of Jerrold’s boasts, Nick’s instinct had told him after the first words exchanged that the man was not only a cad, but a rank pretender.  Still, in his desire for social knowledge, he had refused at first to listen to the voice of instinct and had been punished for obtuseness.  The very thought of the little drawling outsider who had delighted in his sobriquet of “the Dook” made Hilliard feel sick, and he opened wide all the windows and doors when the contemptible creature went out of the house.  “Wanted to turn me into a dry-goods clerk, did he?” Nick grumbled.  And the episode was closed.

One afternoon, not many days after the expulsion of Montagu Jerrold, Nick kept a long-made promise, by going to call on the wife of the Presbyterian minister, the only professional purveyor of religion who had yet settled in Lucky Star City.  Mrs. Kenealy was out, but was coming back soon, and Nick was urged by her small daughter to wait.  This he consented to do, and found the school-teacher also waiting in the pleasant little “living-room.”

The young man and woman were introduced by the child, who, then relieved of responsibility, left them to each other’s mercy, and flew to a friend with whom she had been playing dolls on the back porch.

“I don’t suppose you remember me,” said Miss Sara Wilkins rather wistfully.  “But I remember you very well.”

“So do I you,” Nick was glad to reply with truth; and his heart warmed to the wisp of a woman to whom Miss Dene had been catty and Mrs. May kind.  “It was at Santa Barbara.”

“Why, you do remember!” she exclaimed delightedly.  “I never thought you would.  I always think there’s nothing about me that any one could recollect.  Oh, would you mind telling me how that lovely lady is who was so good to me?  I often think about her.  She was the most beautiful thing I ever saw in my life.”

Nick could have kissed her hands—­little thin hands—­kissed them even in their gray lisle-thread gloves; Needless to say, however, he did nothing of the sort.  He answered quietly that it was now some time since he had seen Mrs. May, but he supposed she was well, and still in California, probably in San Francisco.  She was planning to build a house near Monterey.  Though his voice and manner were particularly calm, his eyes were as wistful, perhaps, as the school-teacher’s smile had been.  And just because Sara Wilkins knew well what it was to be wistful and try to hide it, perhaps she saw more clearly than a more attractive woman would.  “Something had happened,” she said to herself.  That splendid young couple, about whom she had built up such a gorgeous romance, had been parted, and this handsome fellow with the kind smile and heroic shoulders was unhappy, far unhappier than Sara Wilkins had ever been, strange as that might seem—­he who had looked so fortunate!  Sara wondered if the lovely lady were unhappy, too, or if she had been cruel; and because Miss Wilkins adored romance (having nothing more personally her own to adore), not because she was naturally curious, the little woman positively ached to know the story.