‘You must come over and meet my husband,’ said Jessie Frémont. ‘I’m not sure that he’ll appreciate your sense of fun, but he always likes to meet newcomers to San Francisco, and hear what they think of it.’

‘I thought at first that San Francisco was a gypsy carnival, held on a hill,’ said Collis. ‘But tonight I see that it has its beauties, its manners, and its graces, and that all three of these virtues have their queen.’

Mrs Frémont coloured. ‘You’re most flattering, Mr Edmonds. Perhaps you’d better come see my husband before you sweep me off my feet.’

She excused herself from her previous circle of friends and led Collis and Andy through the milling, curious guests as if they were visiting royalty from Europe (always a great social coup, even if they were only half-witted barons from Schleswig-Holstein). Collis played up to the general curiosity by nodding and smiling to everyone as they walked down the length of the reception room, with its palms and statues and rococo furniture.

Out in the glass-walled veranda it was cooler, and the conversation was more subdued. Collis recognised bank presidents and Montgomery Street financiers, and several other whiskery and respectable faces from Barry and Patten’s and the Auction Lunch. In one corner, in a basketwork chair, a bearded man with concentrated eyes was talking with almost frightening intensity to a circle of enthralled young women. ‘That’s Herman Melville,’ Jessie Frémont whispered, in passing. ‘A very promising young talent. Have you read anything of his?’

Collis shook his head. ‘I’m sorry to say that my recent reading has been confined to the labels of patent hangover cures. But I guess that’s San Francisco for you. Libation first, luncheon second, and literature last of all.’

Jessie Frémont took them to the far end of the veranda, overlooking the Bay. It was dark outside now, except for a last mauvish swirl of clouds over the western hills behind them.

Collis recognised John Frémont from pictures in the San Francisco newspapers. He wasn’t much more than medium height, with a faded suntan, and eyes that were hooded and sad. He was talking to a tall man who stood with his back to Collis; and while he talked, he stroked his beard as if he needed reassurance that he was still there, and that he wasn’t out on some dust-blasted trail, or up to his waist in snow in the High Sierras. His evening coat hung on him as if he had lost weight since he was first measured up for it, and his necktie was floppy and carelessly tied. But he was good-looking, in a melancholy way, and when Jessie came up he gave her a look of welcome that would have charmed anyone.

Jessie took his arm. ‘John, my dear. You must meet Mr Collis Edmonds, from New York. You already know Mr Andrew Hunt.’

John Frémont gave a brief nod, and shook hands absent-mindedly. ‘I’m pleased to know you, Mr Edmonds. Welcome to San Francisco.’