My dear father used to say that absence made the heart grow fonder because there was no reality present to hamper the imagination. And I believe that this must be particularly true of Californians.
All during my time with them in Europe, indeed since my joining them, I had heard little comment on anything European from either Peaches or her father except in disparaging comparison to the Californian equivalent. And now upon the train, from the moment of our departure from the Grand Central Terminal, everything I admired elicited a chorused response, "Wait until you see California!"
Naturally I waited. In the nature of things I could not do otherwise. But happily the railroad train did not. Meanwhile I existed in excited anticipation of a degree scarcely to be endured. Never shall I forget the first morning when casaba melons appeared in the dining car, and Peaches and Mr. Pegg exchanged a half-pleased, half-contemptuous glance over the first spoonful. To me it tasted like nectar but——
"Santa Clara fruit!" said Mr. Pegg in the same tone in which Euphemia might have said "Those common people!"
"Yes!" nodded Peaches. "Wait until you have a San Bernardino melon, Free!"
"Can it be possible that California is divided against itself?" I asked, aghast.
"You said it!" spoke up Richard, the chauffeur, who had doffed his uniform and imperceptibly slipped back into his earlier relationship with the family, even to the point of eating with us; a fact which seemed curiously without offense. "You said it, Aunt Mary! Los Angeleans are the Smiths of California, and San Franciscans are the Talbots. And yet I come from Los Angeles myself."
"I should say so, if I get you right!" exclaimed Peaches. "Why, Free, southern California has nothing but the climate—absolutely nothing! While San Francisco is full of—of——"
"Fogs," said Richard promptly; "and earthquakes!"