"What would any one think?" I insisted, nervously, when she paused.
"Oh, well! I sha'n't say."
"Because you're afraid to hurt my feelings?"
"I'm a good sort—especially among people of our own class. For the others"—she shrugged her shoulders charmingly—"I'm an anarchist and a socialist and all that. I don't care who I bring down, if they're up. But when people are down already—I'm—I'm a friend."
As there was a measure of invitation in these words I nerved myself to approach the personal.
"Are you friend enough to tell me why you thought you had seen me in Salt Lake City?"
She nodded. "Sure; because I did think so—there—or somewhere."
"Then you couldn't swear to the place?"
"I couldn't swear to the place; but I could to you. I never forget a face if I give it the twice-over. The once-over—well, then I may. But if I've studied a man—the least little bit—I've got him for the rest of my life."
"But why should you have studied me—assuming that it was me?"