When, therefore, he suddenly left the social scene of action, his acquaintances surmised that he had got an abrupt dismissal, or as they more brusquely expressed it--"the game's up"! "He's lost his chance!" they said, shaking their heads forlornly--"And he's poorer than Job! He'll be selling newspapers in the cars for a living by and by!" However, he was never met engaged in this lucrative way of business,--he simply turned his back on everybody, Morgana Royal included, and so far as "society" was concerned, just disappeared.

In the "hut of the dying" on that lonely hill-slope in California he was happy, feeling a relief from infinite boredom, and thankful to be alone.

He had much to think about and much to do--inhabited places and the movement of people were to him tedious and fatiguing, and he decided that nature,--wild nature in a solitary and savage aspect,--would suit his speculative and creative tendencies best.

Yet, like all human beings, he had his odd, almost child-like moods, inexplicable even to himself--moods illogical, almost pettish, and wholly incongruous with his own accepted principles of reasoning.

For instance, he maintained that women had neither attraction nor interest for him--yet he found himself singularly displeased when after two or three days of utter solitude, and when he was rather eagerly expecting Manella to arrive with the new milk which was his staple food, a lanky, red-haired ugly boy appeared instead of her--a boy who slouched along, swinging the milk pail in one hand and clutching a half-munched slice of pine-apple in the other.
"Hello--o!" called this individual.