“Anyone can.”
“Well, will you?”
“Indeed I will.” (It was a vow.) “And now I must go. I have to drive myself home in an open car, and the tourists do stare at one so—in fancy dress.”
“Yes, but when am I to see you again? I leave Newport to-night.”
“Telephone me—2079—and we’ll arrange to do something this afternoon.”
“And whom shall I ask for?”
“Telephone at two-fifteen to the minute, and I’ll answer the telephone myself.”
She evidently rather enjoyed the mystery of their not knowing each other’s names. But a black idea occurred to Ben. She had slid off the raft and swum a few strokes before he shouted to her:
“Look here. Your name isn’t Eugenia, is it?”
She waved her hand. “No, I’m Crystal,” she called back.