“Columbine?”
“Columbine Dysart.”
That he knew little more than before was a consequence of the situation, and Mistress Columbine was wise enough to spare him the necessity of saying so.
“You do not know us,” she said; “but we will take good care of you until you are well enough to hear all about it.”
“But—” he began, the puzzled look upon his wan face not at all dissipated.
“No,” she returned, “there is no ‘but’ about it. It is all right.”
“But,” he repeated with an insistence that would not be denied, “but—”
“Well?” queried she, seeing that something troubled him too much to be evaded.
“But who am I?” he demanded, so earnestly that the absurdity of such a question was lost in its pathos.
“Who are you?” she echoed, in bewilderment. Then, with the instant reflection that he was still too near delirium and brain-fever to be allowed to trouble himself with speculations, she added, brightly, and with the air of one who settles all possible doubts, “Why, you are yourself, of course.”