This was a blow in spite of her late confession.  But in a moment he took courage.  If this girl (who looked eighteen and couldn’t be much over twenty) had loved a man long ago, that man must have been a father or an uncle.  And with a sense of relief he remembered the miniature frame.

“Would you tell me what parts you want to see most of all?” he asked, with an air of humility which was engaging in a man so big, so strong, and brown.

Angela’s eyes smiled mischief.

“Why do you want to know?” she catechized him.  “I think you’ll admit that after—­after several things which have happened, I’ve a right to ask—­a question, before I answer yours.”

“I know.  You’re afraid I’ll want to be following you again,” said Nick.  “But following wasn’t in my mind.  I want to take you in my new automobile.”

She stared in amazement.

“You extraordinary person!  As if I could do such a thing!”

“Why not?” He asked it meekly, looking boyish, ready to be rebuked and snubbed—­and yet to make his point.  “I expect, when you were at home—­wherever that was—­you were used to travelling sometimes with your maid, in a motor, and nobody else except your chauffeur?” (Nick pronounced this word rather originally, but this was a detail.)

“Certainly.  That’s entirely different.”

“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.”

“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.”