Again Angela was expecting Hilliard. They were to dine, and then she and Nick and Kate and the cat were going by train to El Porto, the gate of the Yosemite Valley. Angela was waiting in her sitting-room, as on that first evening there, when she had changed one decision for another all in a moment; but now she was in travelling dress, and a week had passed since that other night. It had been, perhaps, the happiest week of her life; but the week to which she was looking forward would be happier still. Afterward, of course, there would be an end. For the end must come. She was clear-sighted enough to realize that.
As she thought these things—and quickly put away the thoughts, since nothing must spoil this hour—there was a rap at the door, and she went to throw it open, confident that she would see Nick smiling at her, saying in his nice voice, "Well, are you ready?"
But it was not Nick. A bellboy of the hotel had brought up a large cardboard box which had arrived by post. The address was printed: "Mrs. May, Fairmont Hotel, San Francisco," and there were several stamps upon it; but Angela could not make out the postmark. She found a pair of scissors and cut the string. The box was tightly packed with a quantity of beautiful foliage, lovely leaves shaped like oak leaves, and of bright autumn colours, purple, gold, and crimson, though spring had hardly turned to summer.
She plunged her hands into the box, lifting out the gorgeous mass, looking for a card or note, but finding none. It was a pity that this mysterious gift had arrived just as she was going away. However, she was keeping on her rooms, and would leave instructions with the chambermaid to take great care of the beauties.
Some one else was tapping at the door now, and this time it was Nick. Angela's hands overflowed with their brilliant burden as she called aloud, "Come in!" and he came with the very words she had expected: "Well, are you ready?"
But they died on his lips, and it seemed to her, in the waning light, that his face grew pale.
"Drop that stuff, quick, Mrs. May!"
He flung the words at her, and Angela, bewildered and amazed, threw down the coloured leaves as if a tarantula hid among them.
"Have you got any ammonia?" Nick asked sharply.
"Yes."