“It's only a step,” she protested, indicating the light in the window of the superintendent's house, the most remote of the group of buildings, yet scarcely a quarter of a mile distant.
“But it's quite dark,” he persisted smilingly.
She stepped from the platform to the ground; he instantly followed and ranged himself at a little distance from her side. She protested still feebly against his “troubling himself,” but in another moment they were walking on quietly together. Nevertheless, a few paces from the platform they came upon the upheaved clods of the fresh furrows, and their progress over them was slow and difficult.
“Shall I help you? Will you take my arm?” he said politely.
“No, thank you, Mr. Reddy.”
So! she knew his name! He tried to look into her eyes, but the woolen scarf hid her head. After all, there was nothing strange in her knowing him; she probably had the names of the men before her in the dining-room, or on the books. After a pause he said:—
“You quite startled me. One becomes such a mere working machine here that one quite forgets one's own name,—especially with the prefix of 'Mr.'”
“And if it don't happen to be one's real name either,” said the girl, with an odd, timid audacity.
He looked up quickly—more attracted by her manner than her words; more amused than angry.
“But Reddy happens to be my real name.”