It was luncheon-time, and she was hungry. She had
been reading about the Mission Inn at Riverside, and picturing herself
there, in a cool, large dining-room.
"How far are we from a railway station?" she asked desperately, when her
watch said that they had sat by the Santa Ana's bedside for thirty-five
minutes.
"Can't tell you that, ma'am," snapped Sealman. "But it's too far to walk,
unless you've got seven-league boots."
"What's the matter? Haven't you found out _yet?_"
"Thought it might be the pump. But it doesn't seem to be. I give it up!"
And he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief that left green streaks of
oil.
"But you mustn't give it up. We can't stop here all day."
Sealman grinned viciously. Perhaps he, too, hungered. Certainly he was
hot, and felt like a Socialist. What was this young woman that she should
sit there comfortably and nag him while he was down in the dust? "I don't
see any reason against our stayin' all day," said he. "And I guess the
machine don't."
"Hateful little beast!" exclaimed Angela.
"Who, me or the Model?" Sealman wanted to know.
"I meant the--_alleged_--Model. She's a fraud--a horror. If only I
get--somewhere--I don't care where--I'll never come out with you again,
never, never!"
"You're engaged to me till the end of the month," said Sealman as firmly
as if he alluded to a promise of marriage.
Pages:
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162