"Tut! tut! Brownie, you're jealous. You know there never was a town where people cared less about money--"

"It's just like any other old town, only you have silly legends about it that you stick to in the face of facts. That day Isabel took me to the St. Francis for lunch I never saw so many stuck-up-looking girls in my life, and they all looked as if they had just sailed out of New York fashion-plates. There are only about six really fashionable women here to-night, and they only come because they think it's spicy to get so close to real vice without actually touching it. For my part I'm sick of the whole Bohemian game, and I'd like to dine at The St. Francis or The Palace every night." She turned to Gwynne, her eyes flashing dramatically; she was tired of being chorus to her popular husband's leading roles, and was determined to hold the centre of the stage for Gwynne's edification at least. "They pretend to come here because the dinner is so good!" she exclaimed. "Good and cheap! But it isn't that a bit with the swells--the women, that is. They just love the idea of doing something almost naughty, once in a while in their virtuous lives--when a San Francisco woman _is_ proper she'd make you really tired with her superior airs and censorious tongue; but there isn't much she doesn't know, all the same, and she just revels in venturing this far."

"I don't understand," said the bewildered Englishman. "Are we dining in a dive?"

"Not quite, but almost!" cried Stone, refilling his gla.s.s from the large bottle in ice. "There is only one San Francisco! We have about six of these French restaurants--ever taste anything like these frogs in Paris?

You scarcely ever see anybody in them at this hour with an 'all-night'

reputation. There are plenty of other resorts, a good many of them under the sidewalks, where the dinner is almost as good but where a man doesn't take his wife. And up-stairs--here--and in a few others--well, if a woman is seen entering by the side door she is done for. But then she isn't usually seen. Lord! if these walls could speak! The divorce-mills would explode. The waiters all invest in real estate.

Policemen send their daughters to Europe, and the boss politicians get rich so fast they spend money almost like a gentleman. In the hotels you are all but asked for your marriage license, but in what is euphemistically known as the French restaurants--well, high-toned vice comes high, but the town is fairly bursting with accommodations for every purse. No town like this!" he exclaimed, gazing into his lifted gla.s.s and with the accent of deep feeling. "No town on G.o.d's footstool.

Nothing like it. Wouldn't live anywhere else if you gave me the planet.

Of course I've reformed, but then it's the _atmosphere_--not a taint of American Puritanism--European and something more--the wild flavor of a new and unique civilization. Precious few California men that go to New York to live but are too glad to come back; and Eastern men, like Trennahan, who have had a long taste of it, couldn't be paid to live anywhere else."

"So all the legends of San Francisco are true?" said Gwynne, who preferred Stone to his wife.

"Couldn't exaggerate if you tried. Wait till I show it to you. No blazed trail nor special policeman detailed to protect our precious skulls. I know the ropes and am not afraid to go anywhere."

"How do you like your new work?" asked Isabel, hastily, not knowing what he might say next. "I should fancy that newspaper life would suit you."

"Does! Never hit a job I liked as well. Jolly set of fellows. Up all night. What more could a fellow ask? No more aristocracy of art for me.

I'm neither a Peters nor a Keith, and I wish I'd found it out ten years ago. If a man can make a good living, what in--ah, what on earth more can he want in a town that gives him the best things in the world to eat, the jolliest all-night life, the finest fellows in the world, the prettiest women to look at, a climate that puts new life into old horses--life's a dead easy game out here--when you don't develop too much ambition. Ambition? Nothing in that. Fellows are ingrates and idiots that go off to a cold-blooded place like New York, with a beastly climate, the moment they have made a little mark here. No philosophy in ambition. Only one life. Why not enjoy it--when your creditors will let you? And the money always comes somehow--comes easy, goes easy, and if we can't all be great, we can be happier here than anywhere else on earth. Here's to San Francisco--and perdition to him that calls it 'Frisco!"

"So you have said good-bye to ambition?" asked Isabel, curiously. "I used to think you had a good deal."

"So I had. Once I was younger and knew less. Perhaps if I had ever done anything cleverer than a few dashing skits for the Bohemian Club, and somebody had patted me hard enough on the back, I might have made an a.s.s of myself and crossed the continent in the wake of so many that have never been heard of since."

"I don't think you ever gave your creativeness a real chance. If you had shut yourself up in the country for a year--"

"I should have stayed a week. Scenery on a drop curtain is all I want of nature. No, Isabel." He relapsed into sadness for a moment. "I have travelled the logical road and simmered down into my place. It's just this: San Francis...o...b..eeds all sorts. A few are born with a drop of iron in their souls. They resist the climate, and the enchantment of the easy luxurious semi-idle life you can command out here on next to nothing, and clear out, and work hard, and make little old California famous. Where they get the iron from G.o.d knows. It's all electricity with the rest of us. There are hundreds of my sort. You've seen them at the real Bohemian restaurants; young men mad with life and the sense of their own powers; all of them writing, painting, composing, editing--mostly talking. Then at other tables the old-young men who have shrugged their shoulders and simmered down like myself; lucky if they haven't taken to drink or drugs to drown regrets. Still other tables--the young-old men, quite happy, and generally drunk. Business men and some professional are the only ones that forge steadily ahead; with precious few exceptions. But you don't see them often in the cheap Bohemian restaurants, which have a glamour for the young, and are a financial necessity for the failures. Never was such a high percentage of brains in any one city. But they must get out. And if they don't go young they don't go at all. San Francisco is a disease. You can't shake it off. And you don't want to. To Hades with ambition anyhow," he cried, gayly. "We can admire one another--and we've learned to, instead of knocking the life out of everybody else as we did a few years ago. Now we present the unique spectacle of a city packed to the brim with cleverness and always ready for more. We know how to appreciate. _Vive la bagatelle._ New York? Why, the spirit and brains would be drained out of nine-tenths of us trying to keep a roof over our heads, and n.o.body knowing we were there. No, _sir_. No, _madam_! The men in this town realize more and more when they are well off, and here is one of them."

And he refilled his gla.s.s.

Isabel, not knowing that she had been listening to the litany of wasted lives, turned in disgust and cast about for an excuse to leave before Stone ordered another bottle of champagne. She encountered a gleam of amus.e.m.e.nt in Gwynne's eyes, and it seemed to transfer her to an empty auditorium, while mankind performed its little tricks on the stage for her sole benefit. It was a subtle tribute, and she blushed under it. She was also gratified to observe that Paula was boring him. But she glanced away, lest he should think she had forgiven him. At the same moment she saw a young man that had sat with his back to them, and opposite the famous Mrs. Hofer, suddenly push back his chair, rise to his feet, and look sharply at Gwynne. Then he came rapidly down the room, and Gwynne rose and met him as if lifted to his feet by the hospitality beaming from the large bright shrewd capable face of the Californian.

"This is Mr. Gwynne! Is it really?" he exclaimed, taking the stranger's hand in a large warm grasp. "I am Nicolas Hofer. Your mother wrote you?

We have only been back a short time--I had intended running up to see you. I knew you for a Britisher the minute you entered the room, but the word was only just pa.s.sed about who you were. Do--please--waive formality and lunch with me at my house to-morrow. Then we'll motor about a bit and I'll show you something of the city. Glad the fine weather holds out. No denial. I expect you." And he skilfully took himself off, before Gwynne should feel obliged to introduce him to his party.

"Now, what do you think of that for California manners, and the arrogance of the rich?" demanded Paula, triumphantly.

"Not a bit of it," replied Stone, amiably. "Man was in a hurry. Can't you see his wife waiting for him? Never knew a Californian to put on airs in my life." By this time his optimism was complete. "Only women imagine such things. There are as many poor as rich in San Francisco society. Only some of us are too poor, and Bohemia is better anyway.

Well, let's. .h.i.t the pike. This room is too hot for my head."

XXI

The Poodle Dog, a high new ugly building, stood on the corner of Eddy and Mason Streets in the very centre of the Tenderloin, or "all night district." For two or three blocks on every side there was a blaze of light, electric signs, illuminated windows, sudden flashes from swinging doors. There was much movement, life, laughter, carriages in the street driving from restaurant to theatre. And all beyond, east and west, south and north, was a city as dark and quiet as the grave. The hill tops were picked out with a few lights, but one could barely see them from this region that never slept. Nor could one see Chinatown and Barbary coast, nor other sections more picturesque than creditable, where the cheaper gas blazed late, and not even a policeman was sure of his morrow if he ventured too far. But here was the sound of music and decorous laughter, the clang of street-cars and the constant rattle of carriages: the restaurants were beginning to empty; there would be an hour or two of comparative quiet, and then another crowd would fill the streets, the restaurants, even the saloons; a crowd that rarely saw daylight mixing amiably with respectable but undomestic citizens that could afford to sleep late.

At present the scene was brilliant. "The San Franciscan loves the outside life as much as the Londoner," said Isabel to Gwynne, as they stood a moment almost blinded by the lower signs. "In many ways you will find them not unlike--especially as regards fads. Wait until you have been really initiated into intellectual Bohemia--the clever young newspaper men and budding authors. I already hate the names of Ibsen, Shaw, Wilde, Symons, Maeterlinck, and Gorky. I am only waiting for them to discover Max Klinger and Manet--"

"Klinger?" asked Stone. "Where have I heard that name?"

"He is the great unconscious humorist of modern art, also a great etcher," said Isabel, dryly. "Have you ever heard of the _Secessionists_?"

"Of course," replied Stone, huffily. "You imagine that because you have been to Europe--"

"Well, _have_ you ever heard of the _Scholles_?"

Gwynne laughed aloud. "If he has not, I should champion the octopus proclivities of California."

"They are the very best draughtsmen in the world--"

But Paula had no intention that the conversation should be general. It had been agreed that they should visit Chinatown, and she took Gwynne's arm and led him up the hill; she found his cool impersonal manner almost fascinating after a lifetime in a nest of horned egos. They walked up through the semi-darkness to Clay Street and down to Portsmouth Square, pa.s.sing through an entirely disreputable region, but quiet at this hour.

As they crossed the Old Plaza--now Portsmouth Square--Isabel explained that it had been the nucleus of the San Francisco of the Fifties, and that people had crowded nightly against the great plate-gla.s.s windows on one of the corners to watch the gamblers and the hillocks of gold on every table; and that no doubt their common ancestor, who was a convivial adventurous soul, had brawled here many a night. Mrs. Paula, who knew absolutely nothing of the history of either California or San Francisco, hastened her steps, and in consequence excited the always smouldering jealousy of her husband. Stone had an exaggerated idea of her beauty and youth, and felt his own power waning, moreover had all the average American's Oriental instinct for exclusive possession.

Consequently, as they entered the flaming bit of Hong-Kong on the opposite side of the square, Gwynne, infinitely to his satisfaction, found that there had been a deft exchange of partners.

He had been in China, and the sudden entrance into an illusion more complete than even the stage could achieve almost took his breath away.

There were the same crowds of stolid faces and dark-blue blouses, relieved here and there with the rich garments of the merchants and the women; the hundreds of tiny high balconies; the gorgeous windows filled with embroideries and porcelain, Satsuma and bronzes. He was glad to stroll with Isabel through a scene so like a picture-book, and to exclaim with her over the novel sensation of pa.s.sing from the quintessence of the Western world into a bit of ancient civilization.

She realized the psychology of every violent contrast as no companion he had ever known, and when she told him of the adjacent Spanish Town, Little Italy, n.i.g.g.e.r Town, Sailor Town, where representatives of the sc.u.m of every clime were no doubt qualifying for purgatory at the moment, he experienced a lively regret that there were places he must explore without her comment.

It was a gala night in Chinatown. Even the provision shops were festooned with sausages ornamented with bits of colored paper, and decorated paper or silken lanterns hung before every house. Painted women with stolid faces, often deeply imprinted with misery, rolled along, and there were many pretty children in the street, painted too, and dressed in the gayest and richest of garments. On the balconies of the upper and greater restaurants were valuable jars and vases full of plants and flowers. They ascended to the finest of these restaurants and found a merchant's party eating at round tables from dolls' plates. In a room opening upon a veranda, their creatures chanted what sounded to Occidental ears like the dirge of the lost souls of all the Flowery Empire, and the expression of the relaxed haunted faces confirmed the impression. In large alcoves well-dressed Chinamen reclined on tables of marble and teakwood, filling and refilling the opium pipe with an infinity of patience that if otherwise applied might have led to greatness instead of dreams.

"These men are just on exhibition," said Stone, contemptuously. "Wait till I show you the real thing down in the slime. Lots of tall stories about Chinatown, but the reality is bad enough."

They took a Jackson Street car and rode up through humbler Chinatown, then through quarters of varying respectability until they reached the sacred precinct of n.o.b Hill. Here there was an aristocratic calm, but much light, and faint strains of music. The season was in full swing, and society was either dining, or dressing for the dance.

As they climbed the hill-stair Stone artfully trimmed the ragged edges of his wife's discontent. Subservient as she was to him, there were times when her temper flew straight and sharp like a blade too long hooped, and he had his reasons for conciliating her.

Said Gwynne in a low tone as they felt their way up the dark and precarious flight: "Shall you think me rude if I accept Hofer's invitation for to-morrow? And Stone wants me to do the town a bit to-night. I am most curious--but I am your guest--and I can come down another time--"

"I feel almost cross with you. This house is your hotel. If you ever go to another--whether I am in town or not--there will be trouble."

So it was that as they reached the steps leading up to the door of the house, Stone dropped his wife's arm, which had lain somewhat rigidly in his, and catching Gwynne firmly by the elbow, beat a rapid retreat.

"Good-night, darling!" he cried. "We're off to do the town." Throwing up first one leg then the other in black silhouette against the stars, he sang: "And we won't be home till morning, till morning--"

The voice drifted up from the corner of Taylor and Broadway, where the two men waited for a car. "Till daylight doth appear."

Mrs. Paula was gasping. "Well, I never--never--" she exclaimed, as Isabel hastily marshalled her up the stair and into the house. "I hope they'll be garroted! That's all! But it's just like the selfish beasts of men--"

"What difference does it make? Didn't Lyster agree to be host? It would be too dismal for Gwynne to roam through the purlieus with a policeman--and he cannot come down often. It's bedtime, anyhow."

"Bedtime?" cried Mrs. Paula. "Why, it's only ten o'clock. But I forgot that you go to bed and get up with chickens."

"I should think you would be grateful to go to bed early, once in a while."

"Oh, I often retire early enough, if it comes to that. It's listening half the night--all, is more like it--for the last car, and then for a hack galloping from side to side up that hill, as if the driver and the very horses were drunk themselves. I tell you it's a life!"