She adored him, and was never weary of recalling things he had
said to her, pleasures he had planned for her as a child, and, above all,
his stories of California, whither she was now bound.
Angela had taken the name of "Mrs. May"; May, because May was her
birth-month, and also her middle name given by her father, whereas Angela
had been her mother's choice. Therefore she was just superstitious enough
to feel that "May" might bring happiness, since her father's memory was
the single unshadowed spot in her life of twenty-three years. A brilliant
life it would have seemed to most women, one to be envied; but Angela
could not see why.
The lashes which shaded her slate-gray eyes had that upward curl which
shows an undying sense of humour, and she had been a merry little girl,
with flashes of wit which had enchanted Franklin Merriam before she was
snatched away to Europe at eleven, never to see him again. Even at school
where she had been "dumped" (as Mrs. Merriam's intimate enemies put it),
Angela had kept the girls laughing. Now, though she had imagined her gay
spirit dead with childhood, she began to be visited by its ghost. She
amused herself on shipboard with a thousand things, and a thousand
thoughts which made her feel the best of "chums" with her new friend and
companion, Angela May.
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