united them. They met only at long intervals--when he came into town for
a night--and all correspondence between them was on his side as she never
knew where he was. Even had he not lavished a rough tenderness upon her,
the memory of pangs mutually suffered, of hardships mutually endured,
would have bound her to him. He was the only person who had passed,
closely allied, an intimate figure, through the full extent of her life.
Though he was so much to her she never spoke of him, except to Charlie
Crowder, her one friend, of whose discretion she was sure. This reticence
was partly due to tenderness--the past and his place in it had their
sacredness--and partly to the miner's own wish. As her star had risen it
was he who had suggested the wisdom of "keeping him out." He thought it
bad business; an opera singer's father--especially a father with a pick
and a pan--had no advertising value and might be detrimental. When he put
it that way she saw the sense of it--Pancha was always quick to see
things from a business angle--and fell in with his wish. She was not
unwilling to. It wasn't that she was ashamed of him, she cared too little
for the world to be ashamed of anything, but she did not want him made a
joke of in the wings or written up satirically in the theatrical column.
When small road managers who had known her at the start came into town
and asked where "Pancha's Pa" was, nobody knew anything about such a
person, and they guessed "the old guy must have died."

Since she had lived at the Vallejo Hotel he had been there five times,
always after dark. She had told Cushing, the night clerk, that Mr.
Michaels was a relation of hers from the country and if he came when she
was out to let him into her rooms.

As she drew up at the desk and asked for her key--it hung on a rack
studded with little hooks--Cushing, drowsing with his feet on a chair,
rose wearily, growling through a yawn: