"I used to play at being one when I was a wee thing," said Angela, her eyes far away. "Bed was the sky. The pillows and sheets were white clouds tumbling all round me. I could bury myself in them. I made believe I was disguised as a child by day, but the door of dreams let me into heaven."
"It mostly does," Nick mumbled. Then he said aloud, "If you used to like making believe then, wouldn't you just try it for a little while now? Make believe I'm going to take you round in my car, and I'll tell you some of the things that will happen to us."
"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?"
"A thousand times!" But she broke that silken thread quickly. "Go on. What would we do next?"