Angela knew now that she had felt certain of meeting Hilliard “accidentally,” in the Mission church.  That while she walked beside the elderly Spanish verger, chatting of his native Cordova, listening to tales of Father Juniperra Serra, Father Somera, and the legend of the Indians with the miraculous portrait of the Madonna, she had started more than once at a footfall, fancying it that of her lost hero.

Of course, if he had ventured to show himself at any time she would have known that it was no coincidence; and she would have lifted her eyebrows in silent reproach, talking more earnestly to the verger, who had been happy because she knew Cordova and all his beloved Spanish cathedrals.  Nevertheless, the bronze statue would have fitted well into the scene, and something lacked because it was absent.

“I do think he might write from his ranch and acknowledge the money I sent him,” she told herself now, neglecting the sand-dabs to stare through the galleon window at the floating seaweed on the tide-dark gold-green kelp, like lost laurel-wreaths torn from the brows of drowned divinities.  “I posted the letter myself, that first day.  He must have got it—­if he is at home.”

Just then a tall, dark young man walked into the ship-restaurant, taking off a sombrero.  Angela gathered herself together, ready to administer a gentle snub.  But she might have saved herself the trouble.  It was not Nick.  She could have cried with disappointment.  Snubs of the past were coming home to roost.

There was time to buy California jewels in the bazaars—­tourmalines and pearl-blisters—­before the car came up, purring sweetly, and looking innocent as a cat gorged with canary birds.  Mr. Sealman was so sure that nothing could or would go wrong ever again that Angela had no heart to receive him coldly.

They started off for a run through bungalow-land, and the Model conducted itself like a newly converted sinner.

“I’ve been thinking out a dandy plan, while I was tinkering on the auto,” remarked Mr. Sealman in an engaging manner.  “What do you say to doing a tour of the Missions?  You know, I guess, there’s a chain of ’em, and the fine thing it would be to see the lot by road!  I tell you, this little auto’s going to be all right—­all right.  It’d be the best kind of a stunt for a lady from Europe; and if the papers got hold of it, I bet they’d give us a bang-up notice—­a photo too, maybe, you could send your friends on the other side.”

Angela shuddered.  She could hardly bear even to hear this proposal from the codfish, for a pilgrimage to the Missions of California had been a dream of Franklin Merriam’s.  He and she were to have followed the footsteps of the Franciscan Fathers, stage by stage; and if a Mission here or there were falling into ruin, Merriam had talked of offering to restore it at his own expense.  Now the money had gone to restore the Palazzo di Sereno, and to buy motors and aeroplanes and ladies’ favours for the Prince of that name.  Yet some day Angela meant to make the pilgrimage, when she had built her house and given herself a starting-point.