“Do you mean that I am better looking?” asked Polly, with the excited frankness of sixteen years.

“Exactly.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Edgar.  I ’m a thousand times obliged.  I ’ve thought so myself, lately; but it’s worth everything to have your grown-up, college opinion.  Of course red hair has come into vogue, that’s one point in my favor, though I fear mine is a little vivid even for the fashion; Margery has done a water color of my head which Phil says looks like the explosion of a tomato.  Then my freckles are almost gone, and that is a great help; if you examine me carefully in this strong light you can only count seven, and two of those are getting faint-hearted.  Nothing can be done with my aspiring nose.  I ’ve tried in vain to push it down, and now I ’m simply living it down.”

Edgar examined her in the strong light mischievously.  “Turn your profile,” he said.  “That’s right; now, do you know, I rather like your nose, and it’s a very valuable index to your disposition.  I don’t know whether, if it were removed from your face, it would mean so much; but taken in connection with its surroundings, it’s a very expressive feature; it warns the stranger to be careful.  In fact, most of your features are danger signals, Polly; I ’m rather glad I ’ve been taking a course of popular medical lectures on First Aid to the Injured!”

And so, with a great deal of nonsense and a good sprinkling of quiet, friendly chat, they made their way to Professor Salazar’s house, proffered Polly’s apologies, and took the train for San Francisco.

CHAPTER VII.

“WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS.”

The trip from Berkeley to San Francisco was a brilliant success from Edgar’s standpoint, but Polly would have told you that she never worked harder in her life.

“I ’ll just say ‘How do you do?’ to your mother, and then be off,” said Edgar, as they neared the house.

“Oh, but you surely will stay to dinner with us!” said Polly, with the most innocent look of disappointment on her face,—­a look of such obvious grief that a person of any feeling could hardly help wishing to remove it, if possible.  “You see, Edgar” (putting the latch-key in the door), “mamma is so languid and ill that she cannot indulge in many pleasures, and I had quite counted on you to amuse her a little for me this evening.  But come up, and you shall do as you like after dinner.”

“I ’ve brought you a charming surprise, mamacita!” called Polly from the stairs:  “an old friend whom I picked up in the woods like a wild-flower and brought home to you.” ("Wild-flower is a good name for him,” she thought.)

Mrs. Oliver was delighted to see Edgar, but after the first greetings were over, Polly fancied that she had not closed the front door, and Edgar offered to go down and make sure.

In a second Polly crossed the room to her mother’s side, and whispered impressively, “Edgar must be kept here until after midnight; I have good reasons that I will explain when we are alone.  Keep him somehow,—­anyhow!”