But if you want to give it back,
I'll take it like a lamb. It's--because you love California--I want you to
have it. Don't open the paper till you get indoors. And you'll send me
word whether you can go along farther in the country of make-believe?"
"Of course. I'll telephone."
"Early enough for us to start, if--if the answer's yes?"
"As soon as I wake up. Will that do?"
"That will do. And let it depend on your dreams. I'll trust my luck to
them. Because dreams are in the country of make-believe; sometimes they
are good--so good they make you want to go on and on. Besides, there'll be
the Morehouse letter. I bank on that. But more on the dreams."
The letter had come. Angela found it when she got back to her hotel, and
meant to read it at once, as a letter from so important a man deserved.
But Nick's package was in her hand, and she was tempted to untie the gold
string.
Inside was a fancy bottle of perfume, bound round with quantities of
narrow rose-coloured ribbon.
"Parfait d'Amour. Made of California Flowers," announced the blossomy
label. And Angela broke into laughter, repeating the name aloud, "Parfait
d'Amour!"
She had laughed very often that day.
"He knew I wouldn't give it back to him," she thought.
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