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with much ceremony into the caldron, to the accompaniment of hollow, not to say ribald, laughter and jests which had a strong flavor of personalities. The prologue lasted ten minutes. Then the mummers crowded back ward and faced the pyre. Again the heavy silence fell. The priest went forward and. raising his clasped hands and set face to the moon, stood, for a moment, like a statue on ■ monument, then turned slowly and beckoned. The acolytes formed in line and marched with solemn preci sion to the other side of the pyre. A moment later they reappeared, walking with halting steps, their heads bowed, chanting dismally. On their shoulders they carried a long bier, on which, apparently, lay the corpse of a dead giant. The priest sprinkled the body, then turned away with a gesture of loathing. The aco lytes carried it by the torchbearers, who spat u>on and execrated it; then slowly and laboriously mounted ths pyre and, dropping the bier on its apex, scampered indecorously down with savage grunts of satisfaction, their, white garments fluttering along the dark yile iik«i a wash on a windy day. The corpse lay long and white and horrid under the beating moon and the flare of torch. As the aco lytes reached the ground the rest Of the company rushed simultaneously forward and, with a hideous yell, flung: their torches at the pyre. There was the hiss of tar. the leap of one great Came, an angry crackling. A moment more and the forest would be more vividly alight than it had ever been at noonday. Clive, feeling as uncomfortable as an eavesdropper, but too fascinated to retreat, stepped behind a large redwood. With his eye» still fixed on the strange scene he did not pick his steps and coming suddenly In contact with a pliable body, he nearly knocked it over. There was a smothered shriek, followed by a suppressed but forcible vocative. Cllve mechanically lifted his hat. "I beg your • pardon," he said, ad dressing a tall lad. whose face was partly concealed by the visor of a cap. "I hope I have not hurt you." "I am not so easily hurt," said the lad, haughtily. The masculine man never lived who did not recognize a feminine woman in whatever guise. If within the ra dius cf her magnetism. This young masquerader interested Clive at once. Her voice had a warm huskiness. The mouth and chin were classically cut, but very human. She had thrown back her head and revealed a round, beautiful throat. The loose -flannel shirt and jacket concealed her figure, but even the slight motions she had made revealed energy and grace. Clive offered her a cigarette. She accepted it and smoked daintily, withdrawing as much as possible into the shadow and shielding her face with her hand. He leaned back against the tree and lit a cigar. "What on earth is the meaning of this scene?" he asked. "That is the great midsummer jinks ceremony of the Bohemian Club. They have it every year and never invite outsiders. So 1 was bound I'd see it, anyhow." "I wonder you don't become a member." , ' "Oh, I'm- too young," promptly. "Tell me more about it. What do these ceremonies mean?" ■"Oh, they put all sorts of things into that caldron — the liver of a grasshopper with one of Harry Arm strong's jokes; the wasted paint on somebody's last picture with the mis shapen feet of somebody else's latest verse. The corpse is an effigy of Care, and they are cremating him. Now they'll be happy — that is to say, drunk — till morning, for Care is dead. I'm going to stop and see it out." "I think yc-u had better go home." "Indeed?" Clive saw tne hand that •shielded her face Jerk. "Did you ever see, or rather hear a lot of men on a lark when they fancied that no women were about?" "No; but that is what I wish to do." "Which you are not going to do to night." There was a sudden snapping of dry leaves. A small foot had come down with emphasis. "What do ram mean?" "That this is no place for a woman, and that you must go." ••I'm not — well. I am, and I don't care in the least whether you know it or not. I wish you to understand, sir, that 1 shall stay here, and that I am not in the habit of being dictated to." "You are Miss Belmont, I suppose." An instant's pause. Then she re plied, with a haughty pluck which de lighted him: "Yes, I am Miss Bel mont, and you are an insolent English- "How do you know that I am an Englishman?" "Any one could tell from your voice and your overbearing manner." "Well, I am," said Clive, much amused. "I detest Englishmen." "Smoke a little, or I am afraid you will cry." She obeyed with unexpected docility, but in a moment crushed the coal of her cigarette on a damn, tree stump. Then she turned to him and folded her arms. "I am not going to leave," she said evenly. "What are you going to do about it?" "How did you get here?" I "On my horse." "Where is he?" "Tethered off the road." "Very well; if you are not en that horse in rive minutes. I shall carry you to it, and what is more, I shall kiss you." She deliberately moved into the light and pushed her cap to the back of her head, disarranging a mass of curl ing dark hair. Her coloring was in definable in the red light, but her eyes were large and long, and heavily lashed. They sparkled wickedly. The nostrils of her finely cut nose were dilating; . her short upper lip was lift ed. Clive ardently hoped that she would continue to defy him. Her whole attitude was that' of a young worldling, delighting in an unforeseen adventure. "Who are you anyhow?" she de manded, "Of course I could see at once that you were a gentleman, or I shotsjd not have taken the slightest notice of you." «t» .. ~ "Thanks. My name is Owin Clive." "Oh, you are Mary Gordon's friend, that she has been expecting." "Miss Cordon is an old friend of mine." He half consciously hoped that Miss Belmont did not know c-f his en gagement. ... " "She says you are frightfully ; hand some." ;. . Clive .laughed. "I cannot imagine Miss Gordon using any such expres sion; but then she has been two years in California." "I suppose Englishmen can't help being. rude. I remember exactly what she said, and she said it BO slowly and Placidly. 'Oh. yes, dear Miss Belmont; I think our men are very fine looking, indeed.' (I ' had ' been- blackguarding them.). 'My friend Mr.' Clive, of » whom you nave heard me speak, is quite the handsomest! man 1 have ever seen." . "That sounds mere like it. And that is exactly what she would have ; said two years ago. ' .' I mean.'k laughing with : some' embarrassment, "the way she would, have" expressed herself." - "Ob, 1 ' suppose : you are a ' mass '.of vanity;' all men are. Yes; your Mary Gordon is ; as English as if she had never left Hertfordshire.: And always will pe. She hasn't ■ a spark of orig inality." SBSS^BBg| Clive discerned her purpose, but he ' replied coldly. -"Say rather that ■ she has Individuality.*,' .*'. • t "Which she hasn't,- and you know it. I have that Do you think there is much in common between us?" "How can I tell after knowing you ten minutes?" ' I can't get a rise out of ytni, I see. You Englishmen are such phlegmatic creatures. 1 don't believe there is a spark of impulse left in your island." "You arc a very brave young woman." "Why?" She drew her eyelashes to uetht-r, shooting furth audacity. "Do you want me to kiss you?" The muscles of her face twitched an grily. "An Englishman's only idea of wit is impertinence." "What have Englishmen done to you that you are so bitter? I don't believe those lordlings I luive heard oi pro posed, after all," "They did," replied Miss Belmont emphatically, and quite . restored.' "Every last one of them. 1 made Dyne bor fetch and carry, like a trained. dog. It was great tun. I used to say, b3 fore a room full of peupte. 'Go get my fan, little man; 1 leit it with Charley Rollins in the conservatory.' And he would trot off; he was that hard up, poor thins!" "I am glad you did not marry any of them; 1 am sure they were not good enough for you." "How polite of you. Why don't you step out and let me sec you?" "My vanity will not permit. I feel cure that your remarkable frankness would not aliow you to disguise your disappointment." "Weli, l shall se you on Sunday. You are coming with Miss Gordon to dine with me. She has accepted lor you." "1 shall wait until then. I look bet ter in evening clothes and when 1 am clean." "I like your voice and your figure, «md you certainly have <i remarkable amount of magnetism," she said medi tatively. "Good heavens! what a row those idiots are making. And do look at that bonfire. It looks for all the world as X the earth had run its tc-ngue out at the moon." Clive wondered why he did not kiss her. He certainly wanted to, and he certainly would have been justified. He recalled no other attractive woman who would have had to offer half the encouragement with which Miss Bel mont had recklessly toyed. A man who coined epigrams for sale had once said of him; "Clive is thoroughbred; he can drink the strongest whisky, smoke the blackest cigars, and he never fails to kiss a pretty woman when the op portunity oilers." And yet, so far, sornc-thir.g about Miss Belmont stayed him. He had no intention that it should endure, however. The scene was growing more and more picturesque. Behind them was a great roar, crossed by the howling and yelling of two hundred and twenty-one abandoned throats. The remotest aisles of the forest were crimson. Every needle of the delicate young redwoods, every waving frond was etched min utely on the red transparency. The thousand columns with their stark capitals wore a softened and gracious sspecti albeit the general effect of the night was infernal. . "Are you going?" asked Clive. N ■■." She curled her lips defiantly away from her teeth. "live crossed the short space between tn-m with one step, lifted her in his arms and walked rapidly up the trail. F*or a moment she was too stupefied to protest; then she attempted violently to free herself. "What do you mean?" she cried furiously. "Do you know who I am? I am in the habit of doing exactly as I please. Everybody knows me, here. If you have misunderstood me it's be cause you are a thick-headed English man, used to women who- are either stupid or bad." "You mean that the men you sur round yourself with are idiots who per mit you to play with them as you ( noose. Keep quiet. Don't you see that you can't get away? If you strug gle 1 shall hurt you. and I don't want to do that." "I have sat up all night with men and they have never dared to kiss me, however much they may have want ed to." "Then they were rotters, and you can teli them so, with my compliments. If 1 sat up all night with you, I should kiss you, and several times." "Well, you never will:" Thty reached the road. She stiffened suddenly and tried to spring out of his arms. He placed her on. her feet and grasped her firmly by the shoulders. "Now,** he said, "kiss me, and don't be silly about it. If you go in for larks of this sort you must take the conse quences." She wrenched -"»ain. Ke caught and held her so firmly tha,. she could not Mrupt^le. "You brute wi an Englishma*n," she gasped. Clive clasped his hand about the low er part of her face and lifted it gently. Ap he did so he shifted his position and the light, for the first time, shone full on his face. The girl oecame suddenly quiet. Something leaped into her eyes which his own answered. But as he bent his face, she moved her head backward aiong his shoulder. "Please, please, dent," she said be seechingly. "Oh. please, don't." ("live let her go. He walked with her to the horse, helped her mount, and watrhed her dash away. "What a stupid ass I am," he thought. "Why on earth didn't I kiss that woman?" He walked up the road for a few mo ments, then turned and made for the clearing. The Dames were still leaping sym metrically upward into a dense column of smoke, the men still dancing about the pyre, their enthusiasm unabated. As Clive suddenly appeared in their midst an Immediate and disagreeable sil-i:re fell. Clive had never felt so ur.< omfortable in his life. He con cealed a certain amount of natural shyness under a haughty bearing, which would have repelled strangers had it not been for his charm of ex ;on, the quick laughter of his eyes. "Does Mr. Charles Rollins happen to be here?" he asked stiffly. "I have brought a letter to him. My name is Clive. I have an apology to make. I stun. bled upon your strange ceremony and watched it, not knowing at the time that there was anything private about it " "Dent mention it. Don't mention it," cried a hearty voice. A young man pushed forward from the back of the circle and grasped his hand. "I had a letter from Stanley and hoped you would get here in time for this. You can n.ake up for being late only by drinking six quarts cf fizz between now and sunrise. Boys, come up and shake." Clive's hand was shaken, with a solemnity which at first embarrassed, then amused him, by every man pres ent. Then solemnity vanished, and with it any lingering remnant of Clive's shyness. The odor of savory viands mingled with burning pitch and the subtler per fumes of the forest. A great table was spread. Champagne corks flew. Be fore an hour \v;:s dene, Clive was voted the liveliest Englishman, that had ever set foot in California, and elected off hand an honorary member of the Bo hemian Club. CH AFTER 11. At 4 o'clock Clive once more started for Yorba. He had not drunk six quarts of champagne, but he had com manded the respect of his comrades by the courage with which he had mixed his drinks. Rollin-. had held his head under a waterfall, in the little river, but it still felt very large. He took off his straw hat and looked at it resentfully. Why had he not worn his traveling: cap? He also felt de pressed, and reproached himself ye hemently. What must Mary Gordon think? Doubtless she was sitting up waiting for him, and thought him dead —murdered. Nevertheless he had en joyed himself thoroughly, and he found remorse more coy than he would have wished. He had an uneasy conscious ness that if his head did not ache so confoundedly he would not feel re morse at all. His thoughts wandered to Miss Bel mont. "I believe I found the woman for the forest, after all. I wonder if; she would fit It as well now. Perhaps, in another mood. I fancy she is ft woman of many." • The redwoods were dripping with mist, itself as motionless as the silent trees it shrouded. It filled every hol low, was banked in every aisle, lay like silver cobweb on the young red woods and ferns. It emphasized the .ghastly silence. Xot a bird was awake, not a crawling thing moved. ,Once a panther cried far upon the mountain, but that was all. ■ CHve came up»h the hotel an hour later, a long rough wooden structure at the foot of the mountain, up which straggled many cottages. Hard by B across a little creek, were a saloon and billiard-room. As he ascended the steps, a stout man with a red heavy face, came out of the office, stretching him self. "You're Mr. Clive, the Gordons' friend, I surmise," he said. "1 tope they haven't sat up for me." He devoutly hoped they had not. "They ain't. Miss Gordon waited till 12, then concluded you'd fallen in with the Bohemian Club, as she knowed you'd brought ( a letter to Rollins. Jedg ins by the looics of you, I should say you had. Come over to the bar and taper off. My name's Hart, and I run this hole!." "Thank you," said Clive grimly, "but I'll have no more to-night. Be good enough to show me to my room, and be sure to have me wakened at S. I suppose Mr. and -Miss Gordon are not up before then. If they are, please give thorn my compliments and tell them that I did fall in v.ith the Bo hemian Club." CHAPTER 111. When Clive awoke and looked at his watch, it was a quarter to 3 in the afternoon. He sprang out of bed in dismay. He was an ideal lover! If Mary Gordon sent him about his busi ness he could not question the justice of the act. After a hurried tub and toilet he went in search of his land- lord. "Why in thunder didn't you call me at 8?" he s asked I savagely. : ' ■"Miss * Gordon f was tup % at '; -7,'S mister, and she ' gave \ strict orders i that P you was not \tos be disturbed. . I'm '.; to take Sl* - - *'- ' THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. you over to her cottage the minute you show up, and to send a broiled chicken after you." "She's an angel," thought Clive, "and will certainly make an Ideal wife." He followed his host out of the hotel and up tne hill. Tne summer gin in pink and blue, sailor hat and shirt waist, dotted the greenery; in rare in stances attended by a swain. On the piazzas of the hotel and cottages older women knitted or read novels. The day was very warm. The sun shone down into the forest above and about the cottages, where the trees were not so densely planted as in the depths. The under forest looked very green and fresh. A creek murmured somewhere. Bees hummed drowsily. Clive's head still ached and he was hungry; but at this moment he was conscious of nothing but a paramount wish to see Mary Gordon. Mr. Gordon, a pink-iaced man with white side- whiskers, was standing on the piazza of a tiny cottage wnich looked as U it had been ouiit in a night. He winked at Clive as ne came down and shook him hearthy by the hand. He had loved his wife and been kind to her, but had always done ex actly as he pleased. "She's insKie, ' lie whispered, "arui I don't think she'll row you. Sorry it happened, just vow it never will again, and she'll torget it. ihey always do, biess them!" Clive went hastily into th* little parlor. Mary Gordon was stanaing in the middle of the room, her hands tightly clasped, her eyes very bright, her upper lip caught between her teeth. Clive saw in a glance that she had more style and grace of carriage than when she had left England. Her hair was more fashionaoiy arranged, and altogether she was a handsomer girl. He t /ok her in his arms and kissed her many timts, and she cried softly on his shoulder. He humbled himself to the dust, and was told that he must always do exactly what he wanted; and he felt a distinct thrill of pleasur able domestic anticipation, he had been spoiled all his life, and would have taken to matrimonial discipline very unkindly. When he nad eaten of the broiled chicken and several other substantial delicacies, and was at peace with him seif and the world once more, he went for a long walk in the forest with Mary. After a time they sat down on a log, and he lit his pipe and tried to imagine an environment of English oaks and beeches. Again and more forcibly he felt the discordance be tween the English girl, simplified by generations of discipline and homo geneous traditions, and this green light, this strange brooding silence, this vast solitude suggesting a new world, a new race, an unimaginable future — this hot, electric, sensuous air. They talked of the past two years, and of their future together. "I have not told any one yet that we are engaged," said Mary. "People here don't seem to take things aa seri ously as we do, and I comd not stand being chaffed about it. I have merely said that we expected an old and dear friend of the family." "I am glad. It's a bore to be chaffed." "Of course I have written to all our friends in England that we are to be married on the 12th; out as the wed ding is to be so quiet, it is not neces sary to tell any one here." "How do you like this country?" he asked curiously. "I mean how does it suit you personally? Of course, I know you would make up yojir mind to like any place where duty happened to take you, but you must have a private lit tle idea on the subject, and it is your duty to .tell me everything." She smiled happily. " 'Well!' as they say here, now that I am sure that Edith will make papa comfortable, I shall be glad enough to go back to England. California doesn't suit me at all. It rubs me the wrong way. I think I should develop nerves if I stayed here much longer. Americans don't seem to me to be half human. Helena Belmont says that America will be the greatest nation on earth when it gets a soul, but that it is noth ing but a kicking, squalling, preeo eious infant at present; and that if some one were clever enough to stick his finger in the so:'t spot on the top bf its head, it would transform it into an idiot or a corpse; but that America ■»v ill pull through all right because she has so many weak points that her ene mies forget which is the weaiwai. Miss Belmont is so clever. You will meet her* on Sunday. You don't mind my having accepted an invitation for you to dine there?" "Not at all. It was very kind of you, 1 am sure. I have heard ef this Miss Belmont; I don't imagine you tind much in common with her." "She horrifies me, but she fascinates me more than any person I have met here. I am sure she is a good wom an, in spite of the reckless things she do>;s. Yo-ur friend, Mr. Rollins, says that she is the concentrated essence of California, and I always excuse her on that ground. You never know what she is going to do or say next and she is the most desperat tlirt I ever heard of. I suppose she is so beautiful she can't help it. Her eyes always seem to be looking at you through tears, even when they are laughing or flirting, although I don't believe she sheds many. I cannot imagine her crying, although I know her to be kind-hearted, and generous, and im pulsive." "Do you call it kindhearted to throw fifteen men over?" "I told her once that I thought it was morally wrong for her to lure men on to such a terrible awakening, and she said that there was just one thing that man didn't know, which was woman; and that it was her duty to her sex to addle their brains on the subject as much as possible. But I want you to know me, Owin." "The better I know you, the better I shall live you." "When yaur eyes laugli like that I never know whether you are chaffing me or not, It will not take long. f<-r I am not clever"; she smiled a little sadly. "You are so clever that I know you will often want to go and talk Kb women who know mo-re man I do; but none of them will ever love you so wejl." "I know it," he said tenderly, and he believed what he said. "I am glad that I have been in Cali fornia, though," pursued Mary. "It has broadened me. i • home we take it for granted that all tne unconven tional people bad, and all the con ventional ones good. Here it is so dif ferent; although I muse 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 visi tors remark that: I suppose it is be cause they have so little to do and think about. It is very slow here so- cially; and I suppose that is wtiat makes some of the women do such out landish things — that and the country, for even the quiet ones are not ex actly 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 couid not verify a single statement." "Women know each other very lit tle," said c: CHAPTER IV*. , He passed his nights in the Bohe mian Club camp, his nontafi in bed, the remaining hot; :.ng about with his betrothed, and felt that alto gether life was not understood by the pessimists. England, with the strug giefl and .-ibilities it held in store for him. seemed to exist only between the rusty covers of his tory, and It- ;l thing to De dawdled away in a wonderfaj forest, where the very air made t man hate the thought of all that was hard and ugly and too serious. • Clive waa something more than cu rious to se* Miss Belmont again, but hardly knew whether he ought to go to her hoUi- * or not. It was possible that the expected him to decline an invitation proffered befcre an unpleas ant adventure; but unless he pleaded sudden illness he div not see his "way out of acceptance. On Saturday, how ever, Mary received a aate from the chatelaine' of I'asa del Norte, remind ing her of the dinner and of her prom ise to brir.s Mr. Clive. "Charley RoUtas 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 ar^ almost as perfect as you are. " Clive said, "Yes, dear," absently. Three clays of unshlftlng devotion had blunted the tine point of his content. The next day Mary waa prostrate with one of the severe headaches to which she was subject, and sent Clive off with Charley. Rollins to the dinner. »'.o, '... ma boy." Mr. Gordon had said to him, when Clive had displayed a decent amount of reluctance. "She'll be too ill to be spoken to for twenty four hours. You could do no good by hanging round." During: the hour's drive through the redwoods Clive said to Rollins: V.iv are great friend of Miss Bel mont. are you not?" "I am. ft i a fact." "Have you known her long?" She nearly scratched my eyes out when-Shc was three and I five. I've Bd red her ever since, and think the D I've been able to hang on suc eessfttßy is because I've never pro to her." "I've heard several opinions of her. and I'd like yours. I cant say that, so far, I've met any one likely to understand her. You should, particu larly ad you have never made love to her." RoHlrsl half closed his shrewd, dark Mlted his hat over his nose. Like all San Francisco men, he looked rsrclfsMj ili-i.sed, although in evening clothes, and carried himself badly; but his face was clear and refined, his hair nnd beard trimly cut. "Helena Belmont," he said, in what the elur> (.alltii his "summing-up vrice." "ha? the genius of Califoi ; her. like Sibyl Sanderso. and a : others I coold mention without stop ping to chink, although they wnuM be mere names to you. You see, it is like this: all sorts of men came here in early days — poor men of good fam ily, who had failed at home, or I too proud to work there; desperadoes, adventurers, men of middle life and broken fortunes — all of th :ti expecting everything from the new land, and ready 10 t-ar th^ h'-art out of any one who got in their way. It was every man for himself and the derU take the hindmost. Many succeeded. Some Of their methods will not bear the fierce light of history. That m spirit, that instinct to trample to a goal over anything or anybody, that intolerance or restraint, still lingers in the very atmosr)her", and is quick in the blood of many of the present gen eration, slthc-a .igely enough, it has given a distincter individuality to the women than la the men. Of eoarsei there are Californians and 'ali fornians. It is always a mistake to generalize too freely, but the type I speak of is the most signili.-ant. al cri'iush you will rind no Californian exactly iik- ar.y othtf American. This is the lard of the composite. All America and all Plurope have emptied themselves into it. God knows what it will sift down to eventually- the commonplace, probably. Aa for Hel ena Belmont, Jack Belmont, her father, came here in the fifties and hung up his shingle. He was one of the clever est lawyers the State has had. He rarely drew v 6a*sM breath, and was never seen to stagger; he was an in veterate gambler and a terror with; women. He married a Miss Lowell of Boston, whs came out here on" a visit — a beautiful girl; and God knows what she (rent through with him. You may be surprised that she married him. I nr;y have given you the im pression that he was a cowboy in a red shirt and sombrero. Jack Bel mont was one of the most elegant men this State has ever seen, a gentle man when he was drunkest, and the f th. Southern set, a strong con tingent here. There you have the ele ments of which Helena Belmont is made ud. She has the blood of Cava liers and Roundheads in her veins; she grew up amidst the clash of tha South against the North, for no two people could ever have been more unmated than her mother and father; and she was born in California, nur tured on its new savage traditions, and mentally and tempernmen tally fitted to draw in twice her measure of its atmosphere. She does what she pleases, because she would never know if she were beaten, has a tremendous personality and "a mi'.aon dollars. Here v.c are." CHAPTER V. The forest had ended abruptly. They had coma 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 \> to one of the grandees of the old time, and Miss Belmont bought it shortly after her father's death. She has ac houses, but this is her favorite. It has about thirty there have been some jol!y good times up here. I can tell you. Those are the original tiles and thj original walls. but everything tlse has oeen pretty well modernized, except that old or chard you see on the other aide, and tho vineyard and rose-garden." They dismounted at an open gate way in a high adobe wall, and entered a forge orderless garden. The air was • with the delicate perfume of Castillan roses thorny bushe-i. thick a, rioted over the walls, up the- oiks, across the ked as if no han.! iut or trimmed them since the old Spaniard had coaxed them from the ;v ; . century ago. They entered the house opposite -4 courtyard tilled with i>aim trees and :i?e. curiously mod- Countain, which Ki>lllnsi told Clive the work of th-? oM Franciscans. >ung men -vere swinging in hammocks on the corridor which I the four sides of the court. A Chinese ser vant, in blouse and pendent cue, was passing cocktails. [Continued Nest Sunday.]