They walked, arm in arm, to the summit of the mountain, and sat down upon a rock to gaze at the city, far away.
There it lay, a constellation of lights, a golden radiance, dimmed by the distance. San Francisco the Impossible, the City of Miracles! Of it and its people many stories have been told, and many shall be; but a thousand tales shall not exhaust its treasury of Romance. Earthquake and fire shall not change it, terror and suffering shall not break its glad, mad spirit. Time alone can tame the town, restrain its wanton manners, refine its terrible beauty, rob it of its nameless charm, subdue it to the Commonplace. May Time be merciful—may it delay its fatal duty till we have learned that to love, to forgive, to enjoy, is but to understand!
EPILOGUE
It was quiet at Fulda's. The evening crowd had not yet begun to come. The Pintos, however, had arrived early, and were at their central table talking in low, repressed voices. Felix, at the front counter, looked over at them occasionally under his eyebrows, as if there were something unusual in their demeanor.
Mabel sat erect, her hands in her lap, looking straight before her, speaking only in monosyllables. Elsie's smile had diminished to a set, cryptic expression. She looked tired. Maxim leaned his heavy, leonine head upon his hand, and drew invisible sketches with his fork upon the table-cloth. Starr and Benton talked in an undertone.
"I didn't go over," said Starr, "I simply couldn't."
"Well, somebody had to see, so I went."
"Was it—bad?"
Benton shook his head. "No, lovely. Wonderful. One wouldn't think—"
Mabel looked across at them. Starr lowered his voice.