Mr. James Morehouse (in whose bank there were funds for “Mrs. May”) had not informed her of his brother’s intentions, and though she was sorry to hear of the poor man’s sufferings, she could not regret his failure to meet her at the ship.  She did not wish to be helped, nor told how to see things, nor be personally conducted to California.  She enjoyed being free, and vague, able to stop as long or as short a time as she liked on the way.  She wanted to see only places which she wanted to see, not places which she ought to want to see; for there was sure to be a difference.

* * * * *

Nevertheless, she wrote a gracious answer to the letter, and ordered flowers sent to Doctor Beal’s Nursing Home, for Mr. Henry Morehouse.  Then she proceeded to forget him, unconscious of the direct influence his illness was to have upon her future.  She thought far more about Mr. Nickson Hilliard, whom she had avoided yesterday, and who seemed to avoid her to-day.  The fact that the letter which had brought colour to her face was from a strange, unwanted Mr. Morehouse, vexed the Princess unreasonably with Nickson Hilliard, who ought to have written, if he could not call, to tell his story; and when she heard nothing from him, saw nothing of him, it was in resentment that she left New York next morning.  Though it was entirely subconscious, the real thought in her mind was: 

“Since he didn’t choose to take the chance when he had it, now he shan’t have it at all!”

For a woman of twenty-three is very young.  It is annoying to be cut off in the midst of an adventure, by the hero of the adventure, when you have flattered yourself that the poor fellow was yearning to know you.  If Angela was unjust to Hilliard she was not an isolated instance; for all women are unjust to all men, especially to those in whom they are beginning to take an interest.  Angela did not know that she was interested in Nickson Hilliard, and would have laughed if any one had suggested the idea, from a personal point of view; but in her social reign as the Princess di Sereno, she had been a good deal spoiled—­by every one except the Prince.  Vaguely, and like a petted child, she had taken it for granted that all men were glad to be “nice” to her, and she thought the “forest creature” was showing himself a backwoods creature—­rude and unenlightened.

Angela loved the sea, and chose to travel on it whenever she could.  The trip from New York to New Orleans was even more interesting than she had expected from tales of her father’s, for the ship steamed along the coast, in blue and golden weather, turning into the Gulf of Mexico after rounding the long point of Florida.  Cutting the silk woof of azure, day by day, a great longing to be happy knocked at Angela’s heart, like something unjustly imprisoned, demanding to be let out.  She had never felt it so strongly before.  It must be, she thought, the tonic of the air, which made her conscious of youth and life, eager to have things happen, and be in the midst of them.  But Kate was a comfort, almost a friend.  And Timmy the cat was a priceless treasure.