to her that she had just begun to live. Now a door had opened before her
eyes, and she saw a new world that was big and glorious, ready to give her
a welcome.

"There's something in being a married woman, and going about as I choose,"
she thought, "even if it is only in the country of make-believe. Why
shouldn't I do what he asks me to do? I'm only Mrs. May, whom nobody
knows! And it would be _fun_. I haven't had any fun since I was a little,
little girl."

* * * * *

Perhaps Nick had been right to trust his luck to her dreams; or perhaps it
was the influence of the letter. In any case, at eight o'clock next
morning, Angela, with her hair hanging over her shoulders, and dreams
still in her eyes, was ringing up Mr. Hilliard by telephone at the
Alexandria Hotel.

"It's only to say that you may take me--and Kate--and the cat--and some
luggage--to Santa Barbara this morning. That is, if you still want to? Oh,
thanks! You're _very_ kind. It's settled _only_ about to-day, you know!
Yes. Ten o'clock will suit me."

She hummed a dance-tune while Kate dressed her. And the room was still
sweet with the fragrance of that strange perfume, "Parfait d'Amour made
from California flowers."

She sat beside Nick in the yellow car, Kate (and black Timmy in a basket)
behind with the sharp-nosed youth whom Hilliard called his "assistant."
There was also luggage--enough to last for a few days, the rest had been