Once Higbie said: "When are you going home--to the States ?" "To-morrow!"-- with an evolution or two, ending with a sitting position.
"Well--no--but next month, at furthest." "We'll go in the same steamer." "Agreed." A pause.
"Steamer of the 10th ?" "Yes.

No, the 1st." "All right." Another pause.
"Where are you going to live ?" said Higbie.
"San Francisco." "That's me!" Pause.
"Too high--too much climbing"-- from Higbie.
"What is ?" "I was thinking of Russian Hill--building a house up there." "Too much climbing?
Shan't you keep a carriage ?" "Of course.

I forgot that." Pause.
"Cal., what kind of a house are you going to build ?" "I was thinking about that.

Three-story and an attic." "But what kind ?" "Well, I don't hardly know.

Brick, I suppose." "Brick--bosh." "Why?
What is your idea ?" "Brown stone front--French plate glass--billiard-room off the dining-room--statuary and paintings--shrubbery and two-acre grass plat -- greenhouse--iron dog on the front stoop--gray horses--landau, and a coachman with a bug on his hat!" "By George!" A long pause.
"Cal., when are you going to Europe ?" "Well--I hadn't thought of that.