It was the same with Nick.  He had felt that he could not bear this long and be true either to himself or to her.  Yet he would have stayed if she had bidden him stay, and fought for his manhood against odds.  “Am I to go—­now?” he asked.

“Yes—­oh, please, yes!” she begged him, holding out her hands.  “I am keyed up to bear it now.  It might be different later.  But—­let us write to each other, Nick.  I’ll write little things every day—­that I think and feel.  Then, if they’re worthy, I’ll send them to you—­once a month or so.  Will you do the same?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll take care of yourself—­for me—­won’t you?”

He could not answer in words.  He crushed her hands against his lips, and then, turning from her abruptly, walked away, without looking back.

* * * * *

It grew cold at Lake Tahoe.  When weeks had passed, there was no excuse to stay:  the plans of the architect were finished, and the new house begun.  Angela went to Del Monte, and motored nearly every day to the forest on the peninsula to see how her home grew.  She had not the old interest in thinking of it, but she was no longer unhappy, for she had not lost Nick Hilliard out of her life.  She could almost feel the thrill of his thoughts.  And at Del Monte she was much nearer Lucky Star City than she had been at Tahoe.

Sometimes she wondered if it would be very wrong and unwise to have him come to look at the house when it was finished.  If, afterward, she could have the memory of him in the rooms, walking through them with her—­just that, no more; and then going away—­it would make all the difference between a live home and a dead house, or a house that never had really “come alive.”  But generally, when she had dreamed this dream, she said to herself, “Better not,” or “It would never do.”

One morning in October, just six months to the day after her coming to California, she read in a San Francisco paper—­a mere tucked-away paragraph to fill up a corner—­that the Italian amateur aeronaut, Prince di Sereno, had arranged a sensational flight from Naples to Algiers in his new aeroplane, an improvement on a celebrated older make.  The machine had just been named the Vittoria in honour of the brave and beautiful lady whom he called his “mascot,” and who had made so many daring journeys through the air with him.  The projected dash would be the most ambitious so far attempted, and it was exciting considerable interest.  It was said that Prince di Sereno, in gratitude to his “mascot” had lately made a will in her favour, leaving all his personal property to her.  In event of death, his great estates would go to a nephew, as he was without a direct heir.

Angela wondered how much of her money was left for him to bequeath to the celebrated Vittoria di Cancellini.  She did not grudge it either to the Prince or his mascot.  She took no interest in the great flight from Naples to Algiers, but she felt certain that Paolo would succeed in accomplishing it.  He had always succeeded in everything he had ever wanted to do, except perhaps in winning her love.  But then he had not really wanted that.