"He knew I wouldn't give it back to him," she thought. "That would be worse than keeping it and saying nothing."
She put the bottle down on her dressing-table, and took up the letter from Mr. Morehouse the banker. It was a pleasant letter, extremely satisfactory from Hilliard's point of view. It was evident that, in the two brothers opinion, there was no reason why she should not accept the services of Mr. Nickson Hilliard, in seeing California. The banker, who alone knew (and would not tell) that Mrs. May was the Princess di Sereno, said "Hilliard, who was to be introduced to you in New York if my brother had not been ill, is a man your father would have approved. You are not travelling alone, I understand, but have your servant. You can trust Hilliard as a kind of glorified guide, which he wishes to be, I understand, partly out of friendship for my brother (who hoped to show you about), partly because he—in common with all of us Californians—is proud of our State, and likes nothing better than bringing its beauty spots to the notice of sympathetic strangers. That, I am sure, the daughter of my old friend Merriam must be; and I am looking forward to her arrival in San Francisco, which place I am too busy to leave at present. I hope our meeting may be soon; and wish I were a married man, that I might have the pleasure of entertaining 'Mrs. May' in my house."
When Angela had read the letter twice she let it fall, and again took up the bottle of perfume. Untying the bow of pink ribbon, she pulled out the heart-shaped glass stopper, and breathed the fragrance of "Parfait d'Amour, made from California flowers."
The name might be laughable, but the fragrance was exquisite as the sweet air among the orange groves.
Angela sighed, without knowing that she sighed, as she put the bottle down and pushed it away.
She did not even look at it again until she was ready to switch off the electric light, and try to sleep, after Kate had finished her ministrations. Then, once more, Mrs. May sniffed daintily at the "Parfait d'Amour," as a bird hovers near a tempting crumb thrown by a hand it fears. She wondered what flowers made up this sweetness, so different from any perfume she had known.
"It's California," she said to herself. "Essence of California."
Long after she had gone to bed, Angela lay awake, not restless, but vaguely excited, as she listened to a mouse in the hinterland of the wall, and thought her own thoughts, that floated from subject to subject. But always she could smell the perfume which—or she imagined it—filled the room with its sweetness. It was a pity that the scent had been given such a silly name!
"If the people of this country can be unconventional when they like, why shouldn't I be unconventional, if I like?" she asked of the darkness. "It's so gay and amusing to make believe, and so—beautiful." It occurred 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."