"Well--it couldn't do any harm to make believe just for a few minutes,
could it?" Angela wondered if she were flirting with the forest creature.
But no. Certainly not. She never flirted, not even with the men of her own
world, as most of the young women she knew were in the habit of doing.
This was not flirting. It was only playing--and letting him play a little
too--at "making believe."

"What would happen to us?" she asked.

"Well, shall we begin with to-day--what's left of it?--or skip on to
to-morrow?"

"I hate putting off things till to-morrow--if they're pleasant."

"So do I, and this would be pleasant. When you'd seen all you wanted of
the Mission Inn, I'd drive you along Magnolia Avenue, that's walled in
with those owl-palms in gray petticoats. As you go down it looks like a
high gray wall in a fort, with bunches of green at the top, and roses
trained over it. We'd run up Mount Rubidoux, that has a grand, curlycue
sort of road to the top, where there's one of the old Mission bells, and a
cross, and a plaque in memory of the best Father of 'em all, Juniperra
Serra. Rubidoux's one of those yellow desert mountains, the biggest of the
lot, with a view of Riverside, and miles of orange groves like a big
garden at its foot. We'd sit up there awhile, and I'd tell you a story of
General Fremont, when he passed in the grand old days. Then we'd spin on
to Redlands, and see the park and the millionaires' houses----"

"I like the lovers' bungalows best."

"Do you? Would you like one better for yourself?"