view, simply and solely, the hotel existed—when the wife of a millionaire tootled up in a silver-plated motor-car. The proprietor, who was at the door, with unbalanced enthusiasm started off before she had alighted on a panegyric about the scenery quite as if he had made it himself, declaiming straight on till, with a forbidding hand held up, she turned to her courier and asked, ' What in the wilderness is all this escape of gas about ? Why don't he let me get out ? ' The courier explained that
it was about the mountain. Then, taking a hasty glance, she gave her verdict as though the world were agape to hear it : ' Why, there isn't much wrong with the mountain ; for a thing in the rough it isn't bad at all, but for a finished sight you want to see the First Garden Hotel at Los Angeles.' '