“I should like you to come across him,” said Nick, full of enthusiasm for the man he admired, and devoid of small jealousy.  “Falconer was one of the grandest lawyers California ever had; and in a way he made himself, though he came of the best blood we’ve got.” (Nick would not have dreamed of mentioning that his own blood was as good.  He, like most men of the West, thought more of his horses’ pedigree than his own, and he would as readily have boasted of his handsome looks as of his father’s people—­the people who had disowned that father, and sent him to starve.  But now he was boasting of and for California.  That was legitimate.) “Falconer’s the wisest and most far-seeing politician we have,” he went on, “and deserves his luck—­the money’s he’s made and the name he’s won.  He’s high up on one of our biggest railroads, too, since he gave up law because he’d no time to follow it; and he’s not much over forty now.  That’s California, Mrs. May.  That’s typical.  Falconer’s as different from a rough fellow like me, as—­as I hope I’m different from Sealman.”

“You’re a loyal friend,” Angela said, admiring the fire in his eyes and the glow on his face as she would have admired an impressionist sketch for a portrait by Sargent.  “Only this man ought to be a fresco,” she told herself as she followed out the picture-simile.  “He’s too big and spirited and unconventional to be put into a frame.”

“Oh, I’m not a personal friend of Falconer’s,” Nick hastened to explain.  “Wish I were!  I’ve met him when he’s been to the Gaylor ranch—­the ranch I want you to visit.  But I expect he’d hardly remember me.  And now you see that I’m not typical, maybe you’ll think there’s no place for me on your map.  But I have my uses.  I’m warranted sure and sound.  And wouldn’t I just be ready to die tryin’, if you’d let me, to give you the time of your life in California?”

“I’ve always heard that Californian men are chivalrous and kind.”

“Oh, kind!  That’s a funny word.”

“And these plans you draw for me are—­are the sort of thing to make a woman feel glad there are men in the world willing to take so much trouble——­”

“They’re the sort of thing to make a man glad there are women—­or better still, a woman—­to work for,” he amended, so good to look at in his enthusiasm, that Angela’s eyes would not be banished to the suede bag or to the flowers on the table—­Nick’s flowers.

“But,” she went on, “but——­”

“Don’t say that word to-day,” Nick begged.  “Whatever you decide afterward, let me take you up to Rubidoux and on to Redlands?  Make up your mind about the rest when you’ve seen Mr. Morehouse’s letter.”

“Very well,” she said.  “Just for to-day, the ‘make-believe’ shall come true.”

Nick turned away his face lest it should betray him.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.  “Well, then, I reckon it’s time I went to round up Billy.  And we’ll hit the breeze for Rubidoux and Redlands.”