"A thousand times!" But she broke that silken thread quickly. "Go on. What
would we do next?"

"Oh, next an orange-packing factory. You'd enjoy seeing the oranges
running like mad down a sloping trough, pretending they're all equal, till
the boys watching spy out the bruised ones that are sneaking along, and
pitch 'em away before they can say 'knife.' By and by the small,
no-account oranges are sent about their business, which is to play second
fiddle, and the big, noble-fellows, who're worthy to succeed, fall first
into the hands of girls, who wrap them up in squares of white paper. My
faith, but those girls' hands go fast! It makes you feel like
heat-lightning just to watch 'em fly! Anybody who wants to can order a box
of picked oranges, each wrapped in paper, with a lady's name and a verse
in her honour printed on it. Lots of fellows do that. When you'd seen the
factory I'd drive you back to Los Angeles, and we'd get there after dark.
But there's a searchlight on my car equal to a light on a battleship, and
her name alone's enough to illuminate the road. I've christened her Bright
Angel."

He paused for half a second; but if the analogy meant anything to his
companion she did not choose that he should know. "And then?" she said.

"Then--if you'd seen enough of Los Angeles, I'd ask you to let your Irish
girl pack up. And I'd start off with you--for good. I mean, you and the
maid, and the cat, and Billy. Billy's the other shuvver, besides me. I'd
take you to Santa Barbara."

"That's one of the places on my programme."