The three following months wrought a wonderful change in Excelsior,—­wonderful even in that land of rapid growth and progress.  Their organized and matured plans, executed by a full force of workmen from the county town, completed the twenty cottages for the members, the bank, and the town hall.  Visitors and intending settlers flocked over the new wagon road to see this new Utopia, whose founders, holding the land and its improvements as a corporate company, exercised the right of dictating the terms on which settlers were admitted.  The feminine invasion was not yet potent enough to affect their consideration, either through any refinement or attractiveness, being composed chiefly of the industrious wives and daughters of small traders or temporary artisans.  Yet it was found necessary to confide the hotel to the management of Mr. Dexter Marsh, his wife, and one intelligent but somewhat plain daughter, who looked after the accounts.  There were occasional lady visitors at the hotel, attracted from the neighboring towns and settlements by its picturesqueness and a vague suggestiveness of its being a watering-place—­and there was the occasional flash in the decorous street of a Sacramento or San Francisco gown.  It is needless to say that to the five men who held the guilty secret of Committee Room No. 4 it only strengthened their belief in the super-elegance of their hidden treasure.  At their last meeting they had fitted the second dress—­which turned out to be a vapory summer house-frock or morning wrapper—­over the dummy, and opinions were divided as to its equality with the first.  However, the same subtle harmony of detail and grace of proportion characterized it.

“And you see,” said Clint Grey, “it’s jest the sort o’ rig in which a man would be most likely to know her—­and not in her war-paint, which would be only now and then.”

Already “She” had become an individuality!

“Hush!” said the president.  He had turned towards the door, at which some one was knocking lightly.

“Come in.”

The door opened upon Miss Marsh, secretary and hotel assistant.  She had a business aspect, and an open letter in her hand, but hesitated at the evident confusion she had occasioned.  Two of the gentlemen had absolutely blushed, and the others regarded her with inane smiles or affected seriousness.  They all coughed slightly.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, not ungracefully, a slight color coming into her sallow cheek, which, in conjunction with the gold eye-glasses, gave her, at least in the eyes of the impressible Clint, a certain piquancy.  “But my father said you were here in committee and I might consult you.  I can come again, if you are busy.”

She had addressed the president, partly from his office, his comparatively extreme age—­he must have been at least thirty!—­and possibly for his extremer good looks.  He said hurriedly, “It’s just an informal meeting;” and then, more politely, “What can we do for you?”