“Well,” he said, dismissing these irrelevant reflections, “what about getting you back to your people, and—and all that?”
Laura looked more pathetic than ever, though still careful not to overdo it. “I haven’t any people,” she said with quiet courage. “I’m—I’m alone in the world.”
“God bless my soul!” observed Mr. Priestley, much touched.
Laura was touched, just a little, also, by Mr. Priestley’s evident concern. He was a dear, and it was a shame to be hoodwinking him like this. She tried to console herself with the thought that, this time at any rate, she had spoken the truth—or something not at all unlike the truth. She was an orphan, and, except for George, she was pretty well alone in the world; and George and Annie had certainly one characteristic in common.
“Of course,” Mr. Priestley continued in somewhat hesitating tones, “of course I don’t want to force your confidence, and if you don’t wish to tell me anything, naturally you won’t do so (I could hardly expect that you would, in the circumstances), but I’ve noticed that you haven’t mentioned your name yet. Unless, of course, it really is Spettigue?”
“My name?” said Laura innocently. “Haven’t I really? No, it isn’t Spettigue. It’s—er—Merriman. Laura Merriman,” she added, adroitly turning this blank lie into a half-truth.
“And mine’s Priestley,” beamed that gentleman. “Matthew Priestley; and my address is 148D Half Moon Street.”
Once more Laura’s conscience smote her. Once more she parried the blow. What on earth was the use of playing a practical joke at all, if one was to get more and more remorseful the more successfully it developed? She looked her conscience in the face and dared it to raise its fist again; it retired, abashed. Once more logic triumphed over sickly sentimentality.
“Oh, yes,” she said colourlessly.
Mr. Priestley was toying with a toast-crumb. “And is it permitted to know what you do, or where you live?” he ventured. “Don’t tell me, if you’d rather not, of course.”