The forest had ended abruptly. They had come upon a large low adobe house on a plateau, looking down over a shelving table-land upon the ocean, a mile below.
“It’s about eighty years old,” said Rollins, “which is antique in this country. It belonged to one of the grandees of the old time, and Miss Belmont bought it shortly after her father’s death. She has several houses, but this is her favorite. It has about thirty rooms, and there have been some jolly good times up here, I can tell you. Those are the original tiles and the original walls, but everything else has been pretty well modernized, except that old orchard you see on the other side and the vineyard and rose-garden.”
They dismounted at an open gateway in a high adobe wall, and entered a large orderless garden. The air was sweet with the delicate perfume of Castilian roses, whose green, thorny bushes, thick with pink, rioted over the walls, up the oaks, across the paths, and looked as if no hand had cut or trimmed them since the old Spaniard had coaxed them from the soil, nearly a century ago.
“She hates modern gardens,” said Rollins, “and has never had a gardener in this. We’d prefer to walk without leaving ourselves in shreds and patches on the thorns, but if it suits her I suppose it’s all right.”
They entered the house opposite a courtyard filled with palm-trees and rustic chairs. A large curiously modelled fountain, which Rollins told Clive was the work of the old Franciscans, splashed lazily. Several young men were swinging in hammocks on the corridor which traversed the four sides of the court. A Chinese servant, in blouse and pendant cue, was passing cocktails.
Rollins conducted Clive into a small drawing-room, fitted in copper-colored silken stuffs, and overlooking the ocean. Neither Miss Belmont nor her aunt was present, and Rollins introduced Clive to the assembled guests, with running footnotes not intended for the ear of the subject.
“Miss Lord”—presenting Clive to a tall handsome, scornful-looking girl. “She tears out reputations with her teeth. Miss Carter—a clever little snob, who is a joy to flirt with because you know she is too selfish to fall in love with you. Mrs. Lent—an army flirt, who has done much to educate the youth of San Francisco. Mrs. Volney—a widow with a commanding talent for marrying and burying rich husbands. Miss Leonard—who plays better than any woman in San Francisco, which is saying a good deal; a lovely girl, if a trifle cold. Mrs. Tower—a really charming young widow, with a voice as fiery as her eyes. Miss West—who is half Spanish, a good deal of a prude, and a most accomplished flirt. Here comes Mrs. Cartright, who has the honor of being Miss Belmont’s aunt, chaperon, and slave.”
A middle-aged lady—small, stout, but with much dignity of bearing, her dark face refined and gentle—entered, and greeted Clive with the rich Southern brogue which twenty years of California had not tempered. As he exchanged platitudes with her she reminded him of a gentle breeze which had wandered aimlessly in, barely touching his cheek. She talked incessantly, and wholly without consequence.
Clive had created a perceptible flutter among the women. Being a shy man, he was painfully aware that every eye in the room was upon him, and that he was being discussed behind more than one fan. The other men—society youths—had entered, and looked crude and new beside him. He had the straight figure of the athlete, and carried his clothes in a manner which made Rollins feel, as he confided to Miss Carter, like hitching up his trousers. His closely cut hair was almost black; his moustache the color of straw, and as uneven as frequent conflagrations could make it, fell over a delicately-cut, strong, mobile mouth. It had taken many generations to breed his profile—so delicate and sensitive was it, yet so strong. His eyes were grey and well set, full of humour and fire. The chin and neck were a trifle heavy. There was something very splendid about the whole appearance of the man, and he filled the eye whenever he stood in a room.
Mrs. Cartwright’s fluttering attention having been deflected elsewhere, he plunged his hands into his pockets and talked to Mrs. Volney, whose crêpe set off a pair of shoulders of which he approved. She was a remarkably pretty woman, with large innocent-looking green eyes and golden hair, and conversed with a babyish inflection which he thought very fetching. In a moment he forgot her, and went toward the door with Rollins. Miss Belmont had entered.