who were the first to erect permanent homes in the new land.  This had been the fashionable part of town in 1860, but its stately old homes were put to strange uses in these days.  Boarding-houses of the lowest class, shops, laundries, saloons, and such restaurants as Jules Montiverte’s overran the district; the Chinese quarter pressed hard upon one side, and what was always called the “bad” part of town upon the other.  Yet only two blocks away, straight up the hill, were some of San Francisco’s most beautiful homes, the brownstone mansion, then the only one in California, that some homesick Easterner built at fabulous cost, the great house that had been recently given for an institute of art, and the homes of two or three of the railroad kings.

Patrons of Montiverte began to saunter in by twos and threes.  Some of these the girls knew, and saluted familiarly; others were strangers, and ignored, and made to feel as uncomfortable as possible.  Julia’s beauty was always the object of notice, and she loved to appear entirely unconscious of it, to sparkle and chatter as if no eyes were upon her.  Emeline came in, with one or two older women, and Julia looked up from a great bowl of soup to nod to her.

“Sign up?” asked Emeline languidly.  And two or three strangers, obviously impressed by the term, waited for the answer.

“Oh, I guess I’ll do it to please Artheris!” Julia said.  The girl was fairly aglow to-night, palpitating and thrilling with youth and the joy of life.  Everything distracted her—­everything amused her—­yet now and then she found a quiet moment in which to take out her little memories of the afternoon, and to review them with a curiously palpitating heart.

“If you like me and I like you ...  I want to talk about you ... do you know you’re absolutely fascinating? ... you’re going to kiss me for that! ...”  She could still hear his voice, feel his arm about her.

Somebody producing free seats for the Alcazar Theatre, Julia allowed herself to drift along with the crowd.  They were late for the performance, but nobody cared; they had all seen it before, and after commenting on it in a way that somewhat annoyed their neighbours, straggled out, in the beginning of the last act, giggling and chewing gum.  Julia, raising bewildered, sweet, childish eyes to the stars above noisy O’Farrell Street, was brought suddenly to earth by a touch on her arm.

It was a dark, tall young man who stepped out of a shadowy doorway to address her, a man of twenty, perhaps, with all the ripe and sensuous beauty of the young Jew.  His skin was a clear olive, his magnificent black eyes were set off with evenly curling lashes, and his firm mouth, under its faint moustache, made a touch of scarlet colour among the rich brunette tones.  He was dressed with a scrupulous niceness, and carried a long light overcoat on his arm.

“Julia!” he said sombrely, coming forward, his eyes only for her.