at a shop. He was gone three or four minutes; but when he came back he
said nothing of any purchase.

It was only when he was bidding Mrs. May good night at her hotel door
that, with a schoolboy air, he pulled a small package out of his pocket.

"Talking of typical Californian things," he said, trying to seem careless,
"here's one. I thought, as it's only a little bouquet in a bottle--a few
flowers distilled--you might accept it. 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