When the postman came she flew to meet him.  There was no definite hope in her mind as she did so, but she came back more slowly, nevertheless.  No letter for her.

But at eleven o’clock a messenger boy appeared with a special delivery letter for Miss Susan Brown, she signed the little book with a sensation that was almost fear.  This—­this was beginning to frighten her—–­

Susan read it with a fast-beating heart.  It was short, dignified.  Mr. Bocqueraz wrote that he was sending her the book of which he had spoken; he had enjoyed nothing for a long time as much as their little supper last evening; he hoped to see her and that very fine lad, Billy, very soon again.  His love to them both.  He was her faithful friend, all ways and always, Stephen Graham Bocqueraz.

She slipped it inside her blouse, ignored it for a few moments, returned to it from other thoughts with a sense of infinite delight, and read it again.  Susan could not quite analyze its charm, but in her whole being she was conscious of a warmth, a lightness, and a certain sweet and heady happiness throughout the entire day and the next day.

Her thoughts began to turn toward New York.  All young Californians are conscious, sooner or later in their growth, of the call of the great city, and just now Susan was wrapped in a cloud of dreams that hung over Broadway.  She saw herself one of the ebbing and flowing crowd, watching the world from her place at the breakfast table in a great hotel, sweeping through the perfumed warmth and brightness of a theater lobby to her carriage.

Stephen Bocqueraz had spoken of her coming to New York as a matter of course.  “You belong there,” he decided, gravely appraising her.  “My wife will write to ask you to come, and we will find you just the niche you like among your own sort and kind, and your own work to do.”

“Oh, it would be too wonderful!” Susan had gasped.

“New York is not wonderful,” he told her, with smiling, kindly, disillusioned eyes, “but you are wonderful!”

Susan, when she went back to San Rafael, was seized by a mood of bitter dissatisfaction with herself.  What did she know—­what could she do?  She was fitted neither for the stage nor for literature, she had no gift of music or of art.  Lost opportunities rose up to haunt her.  Ah, if she had only studied something, if she were only wiser, a linguist, a student of poetry or of history.  Nearing twenty-five, she was as ignorant as she had been at fifteen!  A remembered line from a carelessly read poem, a reference to some play by Ibsen or Maeterlinck or d’Annunzio, or the memory of some newspaper clipping that concerned the marriage of a famous singer or the power of a new anaesthetic,—­this was all her learning!