He laughed. “I think you must have forgotten to. We are both just tramps....”
She made a gesture of deprecation. “At first I wanted to find you again very badly,” she said, turning her face from him. “I made inquiries, but nobody seemed to know anything about you. I remembered you said you’d inherited some property, and I even got a friend in England to look up recent wills and bequests for the name of Easton, but no trace could be found. Then, somehow, it didn’t seem to matter any more, and I told him not to look for you further.”
“Then you did care ...?”
“Who can tell?” she smiled, and her words baffled him, as did also the expression of her face in the moonlight.
“Why didn’t you tell me your name?” he asked. “I don’t yet know it.”
She looked at him in surprise. “My name is still ‘Smith,’” she laughed.
“I don’t believe you,” he answered.
She shrugged her shoulders. “They all know me as that in this place—just ‘Mrs. Smith.’”
“It used to be Miss Smith,” he said.