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The girls in their gayest muslin frocks, chaperoned by the more sedate Mrs. Cartwright, arrived at the camp at seven. A long table was spread under the redwoods near the bank of the little river, in whose falls bottles lay cooling. Clive was the only other guest. Mary Gordon had been asked; but although she had accepted with philosophy much that was Californian, the informalities of the Bohemian Club were more than she could stand. Clive had been begged to go alone and to stay as late as he liked.
Helena wore a pink muslin frock, her hair in a loose braid. Her eyes were dancing. She looked like a naughty child, and chattered clever nonsense, apparently in the highest of spirits.