By noon of the following day the coast of the Peninsula of California had been sighted to leeward¹. The lower temperature of the northwest Trades had driven Mrs. Brimmer and Miss Chubb into their state-rooms to consult their wardrobes in view of an impending² change from the light muslins and easy languid toilets of the Tropics. That momentous³ question for the moment held all other topics in abeyance⁴; and even Mrs. Markham and Miss Keene, though they still kept the deck, in shawls and wraps, sighed over this feminine evidence of the gentle passing of their summer holiday. The gentlemen had already mounted their pea-jackets and overcoats, with the single exception of Senor Perkins, who, in chivalrous⁵ compliment to the elements, still bared his unfettered throat and forehead to the breeze. The aspect of the coast, as seen from the Excelsior's deck, seemed to bear out Mr. Banks' sweeping⁷ indictment⁸ of the day before. A few low, dome-like hills, yellow and treeless as sand dunes⁹, scarcely raised themselves above the horizon. The air, too, appeared to have taken upon itself a dry asperity¹⁰; the sun shone with a hard, practical brilliancy. Miss Keene raised her eyes to Senor Perkins with a pretty impatience¹¹ that she sometimes indulged in, as one of the privileges of accepted beauty and petted youth.