California at last. The train climbed over a range of the curious mountains, and then coasted down into a wide, flat plain set with groves of trees.
"Orange trees, Ted!" Helen exclaimed.
"Something like the Riviera," I said, a bit doubtfully. I wasn't quite certain, this country was what we had expected. We looked anxiously at the towns, to see what they were like. I think each of us had a little the feeling we were making the best of what we saw for the others' benefit. The towns were—well, still like other Western small towns. The main streets were a hodge-podge of rural-looking shops. From a train they were not attractive.
"Of course," I said, "Los Angeles is a large city with magnificent suburbs—we mustn't expect the fruit-growing sections to be very home-like."
"I wonder, Ted? Suppose we don't like it here?"
"Nonsense," I answered stoutly. "Think of all the fine things we have heard about California."
It was dusk when the train arrived at Los Angeles. The hotel reassured us, for it was comfortable, and we were pleasantly received. In the morning I was to begin my search for a bungalow—one right out on the desert, if there were such things here as desert bungalows. I went to bed with a shade of anxiety concerning the recommendation of the London doctor. I had seen nothing yet to make me think this a particularly good place for an invalid.
A house agent took me in tow in the morning. We went first to Pasadena, a beautiful place, as I admitted to the agent, but far too town-like and civilized for our purposes. The agent had much to say about the Californian climate; I had quite a fund of information on this subject before I had done with him. I forget now his statistics: the number of days of sunshine, the number of inches of rain, the number of cool nights in summer. I likewise have forgotten his commercial statistics concerning the thousands of carloads of oranges—"citrus fruits," I believe he called oranges and lemons.
From time to time I reminded him that I was looking for a bungalow. This was necessary, for he preferred to talk of California at the expense of facts nearer home. "It's the garden spot of the world," he exclaimed ecstatically from time to time—"the sun-kissed valleys of California."
"What I am looking for is a sun-kissed bungalow in your garden spot, old thing," I remarked about two o'clock. "We haven't found one yet."