“Very fine! White beard, but not long beard. He says someone else wants to speak to you. See here. Lady. Not his wife, though. No. Very fine lady! Fine lady, fine lady!”
“Is it my sister?” Eugene asked.
“Sister? No. She is shaking her head. She has pretty brown hair. She is fond of you. She is someone who knows you very well but she is not your sister. She is very anxious to say something to you—very anxious. Very fond of you; very anxious to talk to you. Very glad you came here—oh, very, glad!”
“What is her name?”
“Name,” the voice repeated, and seemed to ruminate. “Name hard to get—always very hard for Lopa. Name. She wants to tell me her name to tell you. She wants you to understand names are hard to make. She says you must think of something that makes a sound.” Here the voice seemed to put a question to an invisible presence and to receive an answer. “A little sound or a big sound? She says it might be a little sound or a big sound. She says a ring—oh, Lopa knows! She means a bell! That’s it, a bell.”
Eugene looked grave. “Does she mean her name is Belle?”
“Not quite. Her name is longer.”
“Perhaps,” he suggested, “she means that she was a belle.”
“No. She says she thinks you know what she means. She says you must think of a colour. What colour?” Again Lopa addressed the unknown, but this time seemed to wait for an answer.
“Perhaps she means the colour of her eyes,” said Eugene.