“Why, why—how funny your first remarks always are. Yesterday in the storm when I nearly ran you down you cried out ‘Friday’—it didn’t seem to have a bit of sense to it,—and now right while I’m trying to tell you something you ask me in a parlor conversational tone if I—if I——”
“Well, do you?” she insisted desperately.
“Yes, but—”
“Oh, goody, goody, then you’re the one!” “What one?” mightily puzzled—and a trifle impatient.
“I can’t tell you yet—I don’t even know your name.”
“Why, of course, I want you to know my name, that was partly why I called up,” in an injured voice. “It’s Jim Smith.”
“Only that?” her disappointment was keen.
“James H. Smith, if you must have it all,” somewhat surlily.
“O—oh,” there went singing across the wires the breath of Peggy’s rapture. “Isn’t that lovely.”
“No one ever thought it was particularly so before,” the young man answered. “I’m glad you like it. Now, what is all of your name?”