She made it earlier, and was actually ready; but at half-past eight Sealman appeared on foot. Of the car's health he said nothing, but of his mother's health he said much. She had suffered a relapse. The doctor had been with her all night. How Sealman was going to pay the bill he did not know. Would Mrs. May go to Santa Catalina Island this morning, and to Riverside to-morrow? There was time to catch the boat.
The doctor's bill was a trump card. Angela consented to wait for Riverside, and she took Kate to that fair island loved by Californians, and by fishermen all over the world.
The name Avalon alone would have lured her; for who would not set sail for Avalon at a moment's notice?
Santa Catalina is Corsica in miniature, Corsica without Napoleon or vendetta. But it has sea-gardens, fathoms deep under green water, where flowers bloom and fish glitter in a dazzle of jewelled armour beneath the glass floors of flat-bottomed boats. The fishermen were catching yellow-tail that day, too, just as Franklin Merriam had caught them in his time; and his daughter went back to Los Angeles full of thoughts of him.
To-morrow was to be held sacred to her father's memory; for his old home, vanished off the face of the earth now, had been near Riverside. Angela wanted the day to be perfect, unmarred by trouble or vexation; and though she had her fears, when morning came the Model started off so well that hope began to rise.
Making a detour, they spun past the old Mission San Gabriel, where she had arrived ignominiously by trolley four days ago; and turning for a look at the facade, Angela saw a yellow car drawn up in the fleecy shadow of a pepper-tree. A chauffeur sat next the driver's empty seat, apparently half asleep.
"That's the motor I wanted to ask you about, a day or two ago," Angela said, bending forward to speak to Sealman—for she had kept her resolution to sit behind him. "It's the handsomest I've seen; and we've met it several times; two men in it always, in chauffeur's caps and goggles."
"Oh, that car!" remarked the inventor with indifference. "That's what we call Smith's Folly. Thad Smith, a fellow who made a pile of money, had the thing built to order, and it brought him bad luck—lost every cent the day she was finished, and he's been trying to sell her ever since. I wouldn't take her for a present."
Angela leaned back, hiding a smile behind her motor veil. She did not believe that Mr. Sealman would have the offer. His little car looked a badly made toy compared with that golden chariot. She wondered if it had been sold, or if it would be worth while to make inquiries. Somebody was perhaps trying it, she thought, for often it followed the road taken by Sealman; or, when their car broke down, as it usually did, the yellow giant shot ahead, disappeared and occasionally appeared again.
"I should like to find out if it's still for sale," she said to herself, gazing back admiringly. "Why shouldn't I have a motor of my own?"