The view was wonderful. The Bessemers lived upon
the Washington Street hill, almost at its very summit, in a flat
in the third story of the building. The contractor had been
clever enough to reverse the position of kitchen and dining-room,
so that the latter room was at the rear of the house. From its
window one could command a sweep of San Francisco Bay and the
Contra Costa shore, from Mount Diablo, along past Oakland,
Berkeley, Sausalito, and Mount Tamalpais, out to the Golden Gate,
the Presidio, the ocean, and even--on very clear days--to the
Farrallone islands.
For some time Victorine stood looking down at the great expanse of
land and sea, then faced about with an impatient exclamation.
On Sundays all the week-day regime of the family was deranged, and
breakfast was a movable feast, to be had any time after seven or
before half-past nine. As Victorine was pouring the ice-water,
Mr. Bessemer himself came in, and addressed himself at once to his
meal, without so much as a thought of waiting for the others.
He was a little round man. He wore a skull-cap to keep his bald
spot warm, and read his paper through a reading-glass. The
expression of his face, wrinkled and bearded, the eyes shadowed by
enormous gray eyebrows, was that of an amiable gorilla.
Bessemer was one of those men who seem entirely disassociated from
their families. Only on rare and intense occasions did his
paternal spirit or instincts assert themselves.
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