“I can see Chapter First, anyhow,” she laughed to herself.  And again she wondered if Angela “knew about the Prince.”

That night, while everybody drank coffee and talked or played bridge in the hall, it was suddenly flooded with a tidal wave of women.  They flowed into the hotel in a compact stream of femininity; billows of stout elderly ladies, and dancing ripples of slim young girls, with here and there a side-eddy of thin, middle-aged spinsterhood.  Each female thing had a “grip,” and of these possessions they built the desk a mountain of volcanic formation, which looked alarmingly subject to eruptions and upheavals.  Then they all began to talk at once, to each other and to such hotel officials as they could overwhelm and swamp.

“Good gracious! what is it?” asked Miss Dene of Falconer, who was supposed to be a human encyclopaedia of general information.  “I didn’t suppose there were so many women in the world!”

“They’re Native Daughters, out for an excursion and the time of their lives,” said Falconer.

“Why Native?” Angela ventured.  “It sounds like oysters.”

“And it means California.  They were all born in this State; and they will now proceed to see something of it in each other’s company.  To-morrow morning they’ll ‘do’ the Mission of Santa Barbara.”

“They’ll do for it, if they all try to get in at once,” laughed Miss Dene.  “The place will be simply crawling with Daughters.  How lucky we’ve done our sightseeing to-day!”

She did not take the trouble to moderate her voice; and one of the new arrivals, who hovered alone on the edge of the crowd, like a bubble of foam flung out by the surging wave, stood near enough to overhear.  She turned and threw a glance at the group, in time to catch en route to the back of her dress a look sent forth from the eyes of Miss Dene.  It was that look which has no family resemblance to any other look, yet is always the same in the eyes of the best and the worst woman—­the look she gives another woman’s dress the style and fit of which fill her with supreme disgust.

The victim did not take this well-known gaze with meekness.  She was a small person, thin as a lath, with no attempt at complexion, and a way of doing her hair which alone would have proved impeccable virtue in the face of incriminating circumstantial evidence.  She had neat little features, and a neat little figure, though “provincial” was written over her in conspicuous letters; and the gray eyes which she fastened on Miss Dene looked almost ill with gloomy intelligence.  She did not attempt to “down” the beautifully dressed young woman with a retort, though her expression betrayed a temptation to be fishwifish.  It was evident, however, that she was a little lady, though she wore a badly made frock, and her hat sat like a hard, extraneous Bath bun on the top of her neat head.  Whether or no she were a Native Daughter, native good breeding fought with and got the better of fatigue, nervousness, and irritation.  She merely gazed fixedly for a long second at Miss Dene, as if to say, “I know my dress is amateurish, and yours is perfectly lovely, but I have a heart and would hate to hurt the feelings of anybody, especially one who couldn’t pay me back, whereas your only use for a heart is to keep your blood in circulation.”