"And in my car you'd have two shuvvers. What with us both, and your Irish
maid, and your black cat, wouldn't we be enough to take care of you?"

"You're not a real chauffeur," said Angela.

"I've been qualifying for the article, and if I do say it myself I'm as
smart a driver this minute as you could find in California."

Angela shook her head. "You amuse me, because you're quite, quite
different from any man I ever saw, but--I'm afraid I can't engage you as
my chauffeur."

"Not if I could give you a first-rate character, ma'am?"

"Don't call me 'ma'am'!" Angela reminded him. "It's too realistic, Mr.
Would-be-Chauffeur."

"I call you 'Angel' behind your back. You can't say you won't be an angel,
because 'twould be irreligious."

"I used to play at being one when I was a wee thing," said Angela, her
eyes far away. "Bed was the sky. The pillows and sheets were white clouds
tumbling all round me. I could bury myself in them. I made believe I was
disguised as a child by day, but the door of dreams let me into heaven."

"It mostly does," Nick mumbled. Then he said aloud, "If you used to like
making believe then, wouldn't you just try it for a little while now? Make
believe I'm going to take you round in my car, and I'll tell you some of
the things that will happen to us."