Nick's thoughts ramped in the cage of his mind like a menagerie of hungry animals awaiting food. Where was that food—in other words, an inspiration—to be got? Then of a sudden it dropped at his feet.
He had been pacing uneasily up and down his room; but now, with all his customary decision, he touched the electric bell. A trim chambermaid of superior and intelligent appearance answered the call.
"Are you a Californian?" was the first question flung at the neat head, in place of an expected demand for hot water. She had brought the water, and was equally prepared for a want unforeseen. "Yes, sir," she said. "I'm a Native Daughter."
"Hurrah!" said Nick. "Then I know you won't fail me."
She was too well trained a girl to stare. "Are you a Native Son?" she ventured, seeing that a lead would be useful.
"No; but I ought to have been. My parents were Californian, and my heart is and always will be. I have to ask help from a Californian now, for the honour of California."
Usually, when gentlemen clamoured for help from this young person it was to find a collar stud. But not even the most cherished collar stud could concern the honour of the State. She waited, looking sympathetic; for Nick's eyes would have drawn sympathy from a stone, and Jessy Jones had not even a pebble in her composition.
"As a Californian, I'm showing California to a lady," he explained. "She's from Europe, and I don't want her to think the old civilization can produce anything better than ours."
"I should think not!" retorted the Native Daughter. "What is she looking for that we can't produce, I'd like to know?"
"A nightgown," confessed Nick, boldly. "You see," he hurried on, "she's lost the bag she had it in."