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"If you'll forgive me," her eyes were upon him, "I am driving at masculine obtuseness ... and Aleta's happiness." "Then you're wasting your time," he spoke sharply. "Aleta loves another.... She's told me so." "Did she tell you his name?" "No, some prig of a professor, probably.... Thinks he's 'not her kind." "Yes ... let's have another cup of coffee. Yes, Aleta told me that."
Acting upon a strange impulse, he bought the book, marked the passage and ordered it sent to Aleta. A week after Ruef's confession the trial of Mayor Schmitz began. It dragged through the usual delays which clever lawyers can exact by legal technicality.
At once ensued a public uproar. From the press, the pulpit and the rostrum issued fiery accusations that the city was betrayed. In the midst of it Mayor Schmitz departed for Europe. Frank met Ruef at the Ferry, where the former had gone to see Aleta off on a road tour with her company. The little boss was twisting his moustache and muttering to himself.
Frank found Aleta, dry-eyed, frantic, pacing up and down her little sitting room which always looked so quaintly attractive with its jumble of paintings and bric-a-brac, its distinctive furniture and draperies all symbolic of the helter-skelter artistry which was a part of Aleta's nature. She took Frank's hand and clung to it. "I'm so glad you've come," she whispered. "I'm so glad you've come."
Hitherto it had unvaryingly been at his disposal, for the hour of Frank's reflection was not a busy one. Therefore he was just a mite annoyed to find his table tenanted by a woman. Perhaps his irritation was apparent; or, perchance, Aleta had a knack for reading faces, for she colored. "I I beg your pardon. Have I got your place?" "N-no," protested Frank. "I sit here often ... that's no matter."
Finally she said, more gently: "Frank, you'll help him if you can I know." He nodded. It was late. Aleta had to hurry to the theatre. Frank left her there and walked down Sutter street. He turned south toward Heney's office. It was in a little house between Geary and O'Farrell, up a short flight of stairs. Above were the living quarters of Heney and his companion, half clerk, half bodyguard.
Frank wondered why he had not asked Aleta Boice to be his wife. They were good comrades, had congenial tastes. They would both be better off; less lonely. A sudden, long-forgotten feeling stirred within his heart. He had missed Aleta in the past few days. Why not go to her now; lay the question before her? Perhaps love might come to them both.
I've got to keep moving fast." They strode off together, taking a favorite walk through the Presidio toward the Beach. From a hill-top they saw the Exposition buildings rising from what once had been a slough. Aleta paused and looked down. "It's easier to bear up here," she spoke in an odd, weary monotone, as if she were thinking aloud.
Improvised tents had been fashioned from blankets or sheets. Before one of these a bearded man was praying lustily for salvation. A neighbor watched him, smiling, and drank deeply from a pocket flask. A stout woman haled Aleta. "You and your husband got any blankets?" she asked. "No," the girl said, reddening. "No, we haven't ... and he's not ..." "Well, never mind," the woman answered.
Nine years after San Francisco lay in ashes its doors opened to the world. From Ruins had grown a Great Dream, one so beautiful and strong, it seemed unreal. Aleta and Frank went often. To them the Exposition was a rhapsody of silent music and they seldom broke its harmonies with speech. Frank had not recurred to the question he had asked on Presidio Hill.
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