“Don't you know I like some of our California wines quite as well as the imported, if not better? I suppose I ought to be ashamed to admit it, thus showing that my taste is not cultivated. But that is the simple truth. There is that flavor of the real genuine grape which our California wines have that is different from the imported. I think sooner or later our wines will be better liked, better appreciated,” Clarence said.
“I think so too, but for the present it is the fashion to cry down our native wines and extol the imported. When foreigners come to California to tell us that we can make good wines, that we have soils in which to grow the best grapes, then we will believe it, not before.”
The two friends went after dinner to Clarence's rooms, where they spent the evening together. Twelve o'clock found them still busy talking of a thousand things. Next morning Hubert came to breakfast with Clarence and accompanied him to the steamer.
“Good-by, old fellow; take care of yourself.”
“Good-by, my boy; good luck to you,” said they, with a lingering grip of the hands.
“I hope Fred has had a safe journey,” Clarence added.
“I think so, and I hope soon to get his telegram—about his ‘first impression’—which I shall transmit to you.”
Once more Clarence was crossing San Francisco Bay—on to the Golden Gate, on to the broad Pacific.
The surrounding scenery recalled Mercedes' image so vividly to his mind that it made his heart long to see her, and the entire voyage was painful to him with the keen regret of her absence.
But now, again, on the fourth morning—a lovely one in the sunlit July—he was once more making his way between Ballast Point and the sandy peninsula, facing La Playa and then turning to the right towards San Diego City.