“Yes, it’s wonderful,” she replied.  “But—­don’t you think we’d better be going on?  We’ve a long way before us, according to the map.”

“Yes, we’ll go right on,” said Sealman.  “I just thought I’d stop her and point out the Santa Ana, for fear you’d miss it.”  He was anxious to conceal the fact that it was the Model who had “just thought,” but, urging her to begin again where she had left off, the little brute refused to budge.

“Is anything wrong?” asked Angela, when Sealman had worked in worried silence for several minutes.

“Can’t see nothing,” said he, increasing in codfishiness.  “She’ll be all right in a minute.  Give her time to breathe!”

Angela gave her time to breathe, but the minute passed, and other minutes limped after.  Sealman sweated and grunted under the open lid of the bright bonnet.  Angela was sorry for him.  But she was more sorry for herself, as she counted the nearest rows of orange-trees for the twenty-fifth time, following them with her eyes, as they ran up the ankles and legs of the little yellow mountains.  It was luncheon-time, and she was hungry.  She had been reading about the Mission Inn at Riverside, and picturing herself there, in a cool, large dining-room.

“How far are we from a railway station?” she asked desperately, when her watch said that they had sat by the Santa Ana’s bedside for thirty-five minutes.

“Can’t tell you that, ma’am,” snapped Sealman.  “But it’s too far to walk, unless you’ve got seven-league boots.”

“What’s the matter?  Haven’t you found out yet?”

“Thought it might be the pump.  But it doesn’t seem to be.  I give it up!” And he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief that left green streaks of oil.

“But you mustn’t give it up.  We can’t stop here all day.”

Sealman grinned viciously.  Perhaps he, too, hungered.  Certainly he was hot, and felt like a Socialist.  What was this young woman that she should sit there comfortably and nag him while he was down in the dust?  “I don’t see any reason against our stayin’ all day,” said he.  “And I guess the machine don’t.”

“Hateful little beast!” exclaimed Angela.

“Who, me or the Model?” Sealman wanted to know.

“I meant the—­alleged—­Model.  She’s a fraud—­a horror.  If only I get—­somewhere—­I don’t care where—­I’ll never come out with you again, never, never!”

“You’re engaged to me till the end of the month,” said Sealman as firmly as if he alluded to a promise of marriage.  “I’ve refused two other gentlemen.  If you don’t use the machine, you’ll pay, anyhow.”

Angela would have given much if she had brought Kate.  To be alone with these two monsters in an uninhabited world under a blazing sun, passionately hungry and futilely angry, was a dull adventure.

“You know perfectly well I engaged you only for three or four days,” she said.  “That settles it!  You shall not cheat me.  And since you don’t seem to know what’s to become of you or your car for the rest of the day, I shall decide on my own movements.  I’m going to walk.”