The three went up into the bell tower and looked down; upon the old garden of the monks, then away to the sheltering hills, with the far-off rampart of mountains.  It was beautiful there, and the bells in their open, window-like arches, had the kindly beauty of age and experience.  Angela tapped them with pink finger-nails, and brought out a faint, musical whisper, which seemed to breathe some secret, if only she could understand.  But she could not!  She felt dull and unhappy, she could not tell why.  Certainly it could not be for such a stupid, dog-in-the-manger reason as because Nick Hilliard was supposed to be engaged to his “boss’s widow”—­a most suitable arrangement.  Perhaps it was the dreamy sadness of this; place which had taken hold of her.  If there were a secret in the musical whisper of the bells, it was a secret of the past; and it was time to come which was clouded for Angela.  There seemed to be nothing definite in it for her to touch.  Her bodily eyes looked out over the bay of Santa Barbara, grape-purple with the wine of sunset; but her spirit saw only the uncharted sea of the future, across which strange sunrises glimmered, and winds cried like harps, or voices called to her in prophecies she could not hear.  Happiness which she had never known seemed to live beyond that sea in an island palace; but the key of the palace lay fathoms deep, fallen among rocks under deep water.  When Angela had been on her way to California, she had said to herself:  “I shall be happy there living alone in some place which I shall find, because I shall be at peace, and disagreeable things can never come to me.”  But now, suddenly, she felt that more than peace was needed.  She wanted to be happy with a happiness far removed from peace.

“I think I’ll go to the North to live,” she decided.  “In all this sunshine and colour, one needs love—­or else one’s out of the picture.”

At a little distance Miss Dene was telling Nick Hilliard that she was glad she had met him, because he was just what she wanted for her book about California.

“I’m going to see your ranch,” she said, “and Mrs. Gaylor’s ranch.  I’ve heard about it—­and her.  She’s very handsome, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” said Nick.

“And a great friend of yours—­your best friend?”

“A great friend,” he echoed, wishing that Angela, holding herself remote, would let him draw her into the conversation.

It occurred to Miss Dene, seeing Nick’s eyes wander, that perhaps there was something about her which California men were not trained to appreciate, for she was not having her usual success.  And she had scarcely made the sensation she had expected to make in San Francisco, although she had been interviewed, and one reporter had said that her hair was dyed.  Nevertheless, if she could not have the sort of fun she wanted, she would at least have what fun she could.  She was sure that with Mrs. Gaylor, and the Princess di Sereno, and this big unsophisticated young man, between them life would be interesting even for an onlooker.