"You ought never to have come," he said. "I think you'd better go home and get to bed. Suppose we leave them and walk across to the almshouse and take the Haight Street cars?"
"Oh, d'you think they'd mind, if we did?"
"They'd never notice that we were gone, I'm sure."
"I'm afraid you'll find me awfully stupid. Miss Dean is very witty, isn't she?"
"I'd rather be stupid."
"You're sure I won't bore you?"
"I don't feel much like talking, myself. I have plenty to think about. Suppose we don't say anything, unless we have something to say."
"Oh, I didn't know you could do that—in San Francisco!"
He laughed sincerely for the first time that night.
As they came to the place where the beach road turned off for Ingleside, the rest of the party was some distance ahead. They were sitting upon some rocks, and, as Granthope looked, he saw Mrs. Page rise, lift her skirts and walk barefooted across the sands, down to the water's edge. She turned and waved her hand to him. He took off his hat to her and pointed inland in reply. Then he climbed the low sand-hills with his companion and struck off southward, along the road. The girl had colored again.