He shook his head. "I don't want to talk about the storm, Betty, or about the bishop or about any other old thing. I want to talk about you. Tell me about that foolish reason. I love foolish reasons."
"Well, I—I thought it would be—amusing to—see if—you would know me." She doled the words out teasingly, then, with a laugh of half triumph, half reproach: "And you didn't, you didn't!"
"How do you know I didn't? I knew you all right the other day at Brighton."
"Yes, but your mother told you. Oh, you needn't look so innocent. I'm sure she did. Why, you didn't even remember the little keepsake you gave me."
"What keepsake?"
"Ah! I told you! And I've kept it all these years."
She opened her lizard skin bag and produced a silver pencil with a whistle at the end.
"There! I suppose you've even forgotten the whistle." She blew shrilly on the little plaything.
Bob looked at her out of straightforward loyal eyes. "I own up, Betty, I had forgotten. I didn't know you until Mother gave the thing away, but I'll say this, you made me think of Betty. I never knew how it was, but—now I know." He leaned toward her eagerly. "There's only one Betty in the world; there couldn't be two and——"
"It really is going to storm, Bob," she said, rising nervously. "Just hear that wind. And see how dark it's getting."