“No.  I’d be real sorry, but I wouldn’t do that, even if you asked.”  And here was his chance to use Mr. Morehouse—­a chance which might never come again.  “I was going to tell you, I do know a man who’s acquainted with you, Mrs. May.  We came East together.  His name’s Morehouse, and when he was taken sick, I went to see him, and—­and had a little talk—­all the nurses would let me have.  I wanted him to write a note I could give you in New Orleans, but he wasn’t strong enough.  He did say I could mention his name when I told him I meant to go back West and look after you; but somehow it never seemed the right time in New Orleans.  And now, when I began to explain how I inquired about you at the Valmont, as if it was from Morehouse, you didn’t——­”

“I felt there could be no explanation I’d care to hear,” Angela finished for him.  “I beg your pardon!  Still I don’t see why you should take Mr. Morehouse’s responsibilities on your shoulders—­for my sake.”

“No, you’ll never see that,” Nick sighed.  “Only, if you could just see your way to forgiving me, I should be mighty thankful.  I promise to switch off till you send for me.  I’m in the next car to yours, if you should need to—­if there’s anything I could do, between here and Los Angeles——­”

“How do you know my journey ends there?  Did Mr. Morehouse tell you that, too?”

“When he and I were travelling East, he said Mrs. May had the notion to see California; and I thought you’d be sure to begin with Los Angeles.”

“You, no doubt, will go on to Bakersfield,” remarked Angela coldly, making a statement rather than putting a question.

“I suppose so, pretty soon,” Nick assented, too crushed by the angel’s displeasure to be flattered because she remembered where he lived.

“Of course you will, at once,” she announced relentlessly.  “Meanwhile, I hold you to your word, Mr. Hilliard.  It was—­wrong of you to come, and knowing Mr. Henry Morehouse—­of whom I never heard till after I landed—­doesn’t make it much more—­sensible.  I’m sure your motives were—­most kind.  But—­you’ve made a mistake, as you must realize now, and the only way to atone is to—­to——­”

“I know.  Keep out of your way.  And I’ve promised.  But I don’t realize that I’ve made a mistake, Mrs. May.  There’s no use sayin’ I do; for, in spite of all, if ’twas to do over again, I would.  I wouldn’t change anything.”

“Then you shouldn’t boast of it!” exclaimed Angela.  “Confession may be good for the soul of the confessor, but it can be embarrassing for the one confessed to.  You oughtn’t to have told me why you came.  The only thing to save the situation would have been to let me think it was an accident.”

“You wouldn’t have thought so long—­unless I lied.  Ought I to have lied?”

She was rather thankful that the waiter came just then with the menu, and saved her from answering.  She ordered her dinner, and the smiling negro turned to Nick.