"Nathaniel or Spens?"
"Oh! Spens, of course," she answered, quite as if they had met in a ballroom. "And don't you think," she went on, "that it would be nice if we knew a little more about each other than just our names?"
"A little more?" he exclaimed. "My idea was we were getting near the too much point."
"But I meant our past selves, our everyday selves—our real selves."
"So did I. I hope we sha'n't get any realler. This is real enough to suit me." He continued under his breath to ring the changes on this idea to his own intense satisfaction.
Miss Wilbur gave up and began again. "I think it would be interesting to tell each other a little of our lives—who we are, and where we came from. For instance I'm willing to begin—I'm a New Yorker. My mother died when I was sixteen, and I have been at the head of my father's house ever since—he has retired from business. We are quite free, and we travel a great deal. I came down here on a yacht. You may ask why I left it—well, a little difficulty arose—a situation. The owner, one of my best and oldest friends—" She paused. As she talked, questions had floated through her mind. Does he take in the sort of person I am at home? Does he realize how his toil is lightened by the contrast of my presence in the benighted spot? Does he know what a privilege it is to be cast away with me? He was saying to himself: "If only I can get home before the first, I'll increase that quarterly dividend."
She took up her narrative. "The owner, as I say, was one of my best and oldest friends; and yet, you know—"
"And yet you quarreled like one o'clock."
"Oh, no," said Miss Wilbur. "We did not quarrel. It would have been better if we had."
"Just sulked, you mean?"