At four o' clock this afternoon, the bank of cloud which has been standing off San Francisco bay, began tumbling inland, until now at five, the bridge towers have disappeared, and the city is experiencing the sort of weather that helped to make it famous. In his studio at the top of the house, Paul Barbour stands at his desk, sorting through four days of accumulated mail. Through the tall north windows, the lights and the bridge have become mere yellow accents in a field of white, and since this invites a change in plans, Paul has reached for the phone to call Hazel.