In the gray suède receptacle which had temporarily and publicly superseded the gold bag, she carried a small book. It was one of three volumes. Two had been filled since her arrival in America, but this was just begun. There was not much in it yet. It began with El Portal. Where would it stop? Already she was wondering. Maybe she would never write any more after to-day. Or the story might go on for a little, and end when this trip with her "trail guide" ended. Or it might continue, more perfunctorily, just long enough to lay the foundation of her new house, the plans of which were now materializing in an architect's brain. Her interest in those plans had fallen asleep. Everything outside this vast cathedral of a thousand fluted red columns seemed far away and unreal. The heart of the world was throbbing here, like the music of a muffled organ, with only Nick Hilliard and herself for audience.
"I didn't know you kept a diary," said Nick. "Somehow you don't seem the sort who would."
"I don't 'keep' one," Angela explained. "When I was a little girl and went abroad with my mother, I used to write things about the days to please my father at home. I loved him very much. But—he never saw the book. After he died I wrote no more, until—I came to California. Now" (she spoke hastily), "I write about things, not people. I make pictures for myself to look at afterward; for I can't bear to think that my impressions may grow dim, even when I'm old."
"I suppose I mustn't ask to see what you write to-day?" Nick ventured. By and by he meant to ask a thing so much bolder and bigger that he wished to try his feet on the difficult path.
"I must read it myself before I can judge," Angela smiled, surprised at the suggestion from one who never put himself forward; who had never begged for concession or favour since offering himself as "trail guide." "Now don't speak to me for a while. I want to call the whole day back."
But though his lips were closed his eyes were not; and they seldom wandered from the bent head—gold against a dark tree-trunk; and the cameo profile—ivory-white upon a red-brown background.
Angela was sitting under the generous shade of the Grizzly Giant. Nick lay resting on his elbow, just near enough to touch with his shoulder the soles of her small, dusty shoes, crossed one over the other.
After all, it was not as easy to write as Angela had expected, with Nick lying silent, and so close to her that it seemed, if she should listen, she might hear his thoughts, like the ticking of a watch under a pillow.
She began by noting down commonplace things, as though by way of sorting out her impressions.
"We left Kate this morning at Wawona. What dear people keep that hotel! In Europe one never thinks about hotel-keepers. If everything is right, one simply takes them for granted, as one breathes good air. It's different here in the West of America. They—these charming, kind people—lent us their own 'buckboard'—a glorified one; and their two horses, Cash and Credit, who are famous. Darling animals they are, and understand every word that's said to them. When they die, generations of California horses ought to be named Cash and Credit to preserve their memory.