A New York company had bought one of the largest and finest blocks in
town--the old Para place--and was developing it in a manner hitherto
unseen. The big, shabby, neglected estate began to turn into such a
fairyland as only southern lands can know. The old live-oaks were
untouched; the towering eucalyptus trees remained in ragged majesty; but
an army of workmen was busy under guidance of a master of beauty.
One large and lovely building rose, promptly dubbed a hotel by the
unwilling neighbors; others, smaller, showed here and there among the
trees; and then a rose-gray wall of concrete ran around the whole, high,
tantalizing, with green boughs and sweet odors coming over it. Those
who went in reported many buildings, and much activity. But, when the
wall was done, and each gate said "No admittance except on business,"
then the work of genii was imagined, and there was none to contradict.
It was a School of Theosophy; it was a Christian Science College; it was
a Free-Love Colony; it was a Secret Society; it was a thousand wonders.
"Lot of little houses and one big one," the employees said when
questioned.
"Hotel and cottages," the employers said when questioned.
They made no secret of it, they were too busy; but the town was
unsatisfied. Why a wall? What did any honest person want of a wall?
Yet the wall cast a pleasant shadow; there were seats here and there
between buttresses, and, as the swift California season advanced, roses
and oleanders nodded over the top, and gave hints of beauty and richness
more subtly stimulating than all the open glory of the low-hedged
gardens near.
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