“You saw in Rome that I didn’t play.”  Angela stabbed a hatpin viciously into her hat.

“There were cats there.  Here there aren’t—­at least not any who know the mouse.”

Angela daintily ceased to be a fellow-being, in a disconcerting way she had when she chose, and became a high personage.  She did this without a word, without a gesture, without even lifting her eyebrows.  There was merely a change of atmosphere.  Miss Dene felt it, but she did not care here as she would have cared in Rome.  There, the young Princess di Sereno could have made or marred her socially.  In California she was on the same ground as Mrs. May.  Besides, she knew a thing about Mrs. May which, for some reason or other, Mrs. May did not want other people to know.  So Theo sat on a green sofa and smoked a cigarette, hoping that she looked like a snake charmer with the sinuous, serpentine smoke-loops weaving and writhing round her head.

“Pray don’t joke in that way before any one else,” said Angela.  “It is rather horrid, don’t you think?  No doubt Mr. Hilliard will be delighted to have you ‘play’ with him, if you see enough of each other to make it worth while wasting your energy.”

As she spoke, she wrestled with a violent desire to show Miss Dene that Nick was not to be detached from his present position of guide, philosopher, and friend.

“I don’t do that sort of thing with ‘energy.’  I do it with magnetism,” Theo drawled.  Her cigarette was smoked out, and she got up.  “Well, I must run down to Mrs. Harland, I suppose.  We arrived only this morning, early, from Monterey, and to-morrow we’re going on to Paso Robles.  That’s where Mr. Falconer’s romance comes in.  Did you ever hear of Paso Robles?”

“Yes,” said Angela.  “My father owned land there, with a warm sulphur lake.  There’s a legend about it, which he used to tell me.  The place is sold now.  But I’m going to see it—­because of the legend.  I had photographs of the old Mission—­and of the lake, too.”

“Well, perhaps you know, then, there’s a big hotel at Paso Robles and a ‘cure.’  I never heard of it before—­but apparently it’s famous.  If you stop there try and find out about a Mademoiselle Dobieski, and see her if you can.”

“Who is she?” Angela asked.  “The name sounds dimly familiar, as if she were an actress or a dancer, or somebody one has heard of.”

“She was a singer.  She is Mr. Falconer’s romance.  I’d give a good deal to see her.”

“I suppose you will, if she’s a friend of his, and you’re going to Paso Robles in his private car.”

“No.  I won’t be allowed.  He’s sending Mrs. Harland and me straight on to Del Monte, and then to San Francisco.  He’ll follow; and afterward he’s going to take us to Shasta, and the McCloud River, where they say he has the most fascinating country house in the world.  I shall probably have a relapse when I see it.”

“I remember now,” said Angela.  “There was a Polish girl who sang in concerts, and then made her debut in opera in London.  I never saw or heard her, but people used to say she was divine.  Then she went back to Russia, three or four years ago, and seemed to vanish into space.”