"May I find you a warm place to sit?" he asked. "That's an uncomfortable breeze. And do you mind if I talk to you? I haven't talked to any one like you for a long time."
She smiled assent.
"Ditto to that last," she said.
"You aren't a western man, are you?" she continued, as Hollister took her by the arm and led her toward a cabin abaft the wheelhouse on the boat deck, a roomy lounging place unoccupied save by a fat woman taking a midday nap in one corner, her double chin sunk on her ample bosom.
"No," he said. "I'm from the East. But I spent some time out here once or twice, and I remembered the coast as a place I liked. So I came back here when the war was over and everything gone to pot—at least where I was concerned. My name is Hollister."
"Mine," she replied, "is Cleveland."
Hollister looked at her intently.
"Doris Cleveland—her book," he said aloud. It was to all intents and purposes a question.
"Why do you say that?" the girl asked quickly. "And how do you happen to know my given name?"
"That was a guess," he answered. "Is it right?"