"Now you've got a cat too."
Angela broke into laughter. This man, and this day, were unique. She was delighted with herself for forgiving Mr. Hilliard. Because, of course, she could unforgive him again at any minute, if it seemed really best.
When a woman laughs at your bon mot, there is hope. There is also happiness. Nick felt both. They came in a gust, like a spray of perfume in his face, taking his breath away. "I believe she'll do it," he said to that sympathetic chum—himself, who was taking the kindliest interest in his love affairs. "It's up to me now."
"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."