“It would be—­the nicest thing that ever happened.  Only ‘nice’ ain’t a big enough word. Can’t it come true?  Think, with your cat and your Kate and your trail guide?  You called me a ‘friend in need.’  Can’t I be your guide in need?  You’d have to get a guide for the Valley.  Why not me?”

“We’ve only known each other a few days.”

“Any other guide would be a stranger.  And I guess, Mrs. May, if that’s all, we know each other as well as a good many, who call themselves friends, get to know one another in years.  Do you ever find out anything about people that you didn’t feel the first moment you set eyes on them?”

“Well—­you did save my life!” she conceded.  “I can’t get away from that.”

“Do you mind not getting away from it?”

“No-o.”

“Then will you take me for your shuvver and trial guide to those places?  I won’t ask you any more, now.  You can send me packing afterward, if you don’t think I live up to the character Mr. Morehouse has given you of me.”

“Mr. Morehouse!  I haven’t heard from him since my first day in New York.”

“I mean the other Mr. Morehouse, his brother—­your banker.  Henry wired to him from New York.  And he was writing you, to say, if you hadn’t got anybody who knew the ropes to see you through your excursions, you couldn’t do better than let Hilliard of Lucky Star be your pilot—­kind of courier, you know.  Both the Morehouses vouch for me, though it’s Henry who’s my friend.  All strangers who come to have a look around California take a Californian to show them the sights.  If you haven’t got Mr. Morehouse’s letter, it must be waiting for you.  I reckon it ought to have arrived last night or this morning.  And if you find he recommends me as a trustworthy man, will you think the plan over, before you say no?”

“You take my breath away!  But—­ye-es.  I’ll think it over.  I suppose one really can do things in America one wouldn’t do anywhere else?”

“That’s why there’s so much emigration,” replied Nick, gravely.

“And I should be studying California through you, I suppose?  I begin to see that you’re a typical Californian.”

“No,” Nick contradicted her.  “You mustn’t get hold of that impression.  It wouldn’t be playing the game for me to let you.  The typical Californian’s a very different man:  a grand chap, and I reckon more like the sort you’re used to.”

Angela smiled.  “Describe him.”

“Well, I’m not much at description.  You’ll meet the kind I mean when you get to San Francisco, if you don’t before.  The two Morehouses are the right sort; and lots of others.  John Falconer’s one of the best.  Have you ever heard of him?”

“Yes,” said Angela.  “I remember his name.  My—­friends of mine have spoken of him, though he was younger, and made his fame later.”