“I know it,” he said tenderly, and he believed what he said.
“I am glad that I have been in California, though,” pursued Mary. “It has broadened me. At home we take it for granted that all the unconventional people are bad, and all the conventional ones good. Here it is so different; although I must say that I never heard so much petty gossip and scandal in my life as there is in the smart set in San Francisco. All visitors remark that; I suppose it is because they have so little to do and think about. It is very slow here socially; and I suppose that is what makes some of the women do such outlandish things—that and the country, for even the quiet ones are not exactly like other people. One can judge for oneself. I have often pinned the tattlers down when they were abusing Helena Belmont, for instance, and they could not verify a single statement.”
“Women know each other very little,” said Clive.
CHAPTER IV.
He passed his nights in the Bohemian Club camp, his mornings in bed, the remaining hours wandering about with his betrothed; and felt that altogether life was not understood by the pessimists. England, with the struggles and cares and responsibilities it held in store for him, seemed to exist only between the rusty covers of history, and life a thing to be dawdled away in a wonderful forest, where the very air made a man hate the thought of all that was hard and ugly and too serious.
Clive was something more than curious to see Miss Belmont again, but hardly knew whether he ought to go to her house or not. It was possible that she expected him to decline an invitation proffered before an unpleasant adventure; but unless he pleaded sudden illness he did not see his way out of acceptance. On Saturday, however, Mary received a note from the châtelaine of Casa del Norte, reminding her of the dinner and of her promise to bring Mr. Clive.
“Charley Rollins tells me that he is the best all-round Englishman he has ever known,” the note concluded; “not the least bit of a cad. I am most anxious to meet him.”
Mary laughed as she handed the note to Clive. “If any other woman had written that I’d never enter her house again. But, somehow, you let her say and do exactly what she chooses. The trouble is that the only Englishmen she has met have been fortune-hunters. When we are married I’ll ask her over to visit us, and let her meet men who are almost as perfect as you are.”
Clive said “Yes, dear,” absently. Three days of unshifting devotion had blunted the fine point of his content.