"You thought of nothing at all, Milly," returned Yerba, with
authority. "I tell you he's a mass of conceit. What else can you
expect of a Man--toadied and fawned upon to that extent? It made
me sick! I could have just shaken them!"

As if to emphasize her statement, she grasped one of the long
willowy branches of the enormous rose-bush where she stood, and
shook it lightly. The action detached a few of the maturer
blossoms, and sent down a shower of faded pink petals on her dark
hair and yellow dress. "I can't bear conceit," she added.

"Oh, Yerba, just stand as you are! I do wish the girls could see
you. You make the LOVELIEST picture!"

She certainly did look very pretty as she stood there--a few leaves
lodged in her hair, clinging to her dress, and suggesting by
reflection the color that her delicate satin skin would have
resented in its own texture. But she turned impatiently away--
perhaps not before she had allowed this passing vision to impress
the mind of her devoted adherent--and said, "Come along, or that
dreadful man will be out on the veranda again."

"But, if you dislike him so, why did you accept the invitation to
meet him here at luncheon?" said the curious Milly.

"I didn't accept; the Mother Superior did for me, because he's the
Mayor of San Francisco visiting your uncle, and she's always
anxious to placate the powers that be. And I thought he might have
some information that I could get out of him. And it was better