“In the cool season the girls used to come down and visit me in Hilo, where Dad had two houses, one at the beach, or the three of us used to go down to our place in Puna, and that meant canoes and boats and fishing and swimming.  Then, too, Dad belonged to the Royal Hawaiian Yacht Club, and took us racing and cruising.  Dad could never get away from the sea, you know.  When I was fourteen I was Dad’s actual housekeeper, with entire power over the servants, and I am very proud of that period of my life.  And when I was sixteen we three girls were all sent up to California to Mills Seminary, which was quite fashionable and stifling.  How we used to long for home!  We didn’t chum with the other girls, who called us little cannibals, just because we came from the Sandwich Islands, and who made invidious remarks about our ancestors banqueting on Captain Cook—­which was historically untrue, and, besides, our ancestors hadn’t lived in Hawaii.

“I was three years at Mills Seminary, with trips home, of course, and two years in New York; and then Dad went smash in a sugar plantation on Maui.  The report of the engineers had not been right.  Then Dad had built a railroad that was called ’Lackland’s Folly,’—­it will pay ultimately, though.  But it contributed to the smash.  The Pelaulau Ditch was the finishing blow.  And nothing would have happened anyway, if it hadn’t been for that big money panic in Wall Street.  Dear good Dad!  He never let me know.  But I read about the crash in a newspaper, and hurried home.  It was before that, though, that people had been dinging into my ears that marriage was all any woman could get out of life, and good-bye to romance.  Instead of which, with Dad’s failure, I fell right into romance.”

“How long ago was that?” Sheldon asked.

“Last year—­the year of the panic.”

“Let me see,” Sheldon pondered with an air of gravity.  “Sixteen plus five, plus one, equals twenty-two.  You were born in 1887?”

“Yes; but it is not nice of you.”

“I am really sorry,” he said, “but the problem was so obvious.”

“Can’t you ever say nice things?  Or is it the way you English have?” There was a snap in her gray eyes, and her lips quivered suspiciously for a moment.  “I should recommend, Mr. Sheldon, that you read Gertrude Atherton’s ‘American Wives and English Husbands.’”

“Thank you, I have.  It’s over there.”  He pointed at the generously filled bookshelves.  “But I am afraid it is rather partisan.”

“Anything un-English is bound to be,” she retorted.  “I never have liked the English anyway.  The last one I knew was an overseer.  Dad was compelled to discharge him.”

“One swallow doesn’t make a summer.”

“But that Englishman made lots of trouble—­there!  And now please don’t make me any more absurd than I already am.”

“I’m trying not to.”