Gwynne
had pointed out their ever changing tints and shades as they drove through
the valley; at the moment they were heliotrope deepening to purple in the
hollows.
Behind the foothills above Rincona rose the lofty mountains which in
Maria Abbott's youth had seemed to tower above the valley a solid wall of
redwoods; but long since plundered and defaced for the passing needs of
man.
"Great country--what?" said Gwynne, starting the car. "You couldn't pry me
away from it--that is, unless I have the luck to represent it in Washington
half the year. You'll be coming back yourself some day."
"I? Never. I hate the sight of its grinning blue sky after the red horror
of those three days. I haven't seen a cloud as big as my hand, and in
common decency it should howl and stream for months."
"Well, forget it for a day. Perhaps you will be placed next the fair
Alexina at luncheon--"
"Alexina...?"
"Groome. You must have met her at the Hofer ball."
"She--what--possible--"
Gwynne looked at his stuttering and flushed young cousin and burst into
laughter.
"As bad as that, was it? Well, she's not bespoken as far as I know. Wade in
and win. You have my blessing. She is almost as beautiful as Isabel--"
"She's quite as beautiful as Miss Otis."
"Oh, very well. No doubt I'd think so myself if I hadn't happened to meet
Isabel first, and if I were not too old for her anyway.
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