She laughed. “I suppose it’s a trifle too late to say I’m sorry. I don’t suppose you minded much.” She waited for him to contradict that; when he didn’t she continued, “How much do you know about me? For instance, what’s my real name?”
He laughed in return. “You’ve got me there. All you told me was that people called you Cherry, because your lips were red.”
She sank her head between her shoulders; then she looked up flushing and pursing her lips together, like a child who wants to extract a favor by being loved. “Be a sportsman. You’re awfully tantalizing. Give me a pointer that’ll help me to guess. You know, I ought to know who you are; it isn’t good form for a girl to take tea with a strange young man.”
“Well,” he said, speaking slowly, “do you remember a day when you knocked down and walked over, oh, let’s say about twenty photographs of the same lady?”
“Do I remember!” She sniffed a little scornfully. “‘Tisn’t likely I’d forget; that was why the Faun Man sent me to a convent.”
She had said rather more than she intended. She was provoked with herself and with Peter, for the moment, because he had drawn her out. She twisted round on her chair, so that he could see only her shoulders.
Not realizing that he was being snubbed, he pushed the subject further, “What an unfair punishment! That doesn’t sound like the Faun Man. But, perhaps, you liked it. What did you do at the convent?”
“Always praying,” she answered, with her shoulders still toward him. “And, look here, don’t you say that the Faun Man was unfair. He wasn’t. He didn’t send me away only for breaking his pictures.” And then, inconsequently, “If it wasn’t too childish I’d go and smash them all afresh.”
Suddenly she swung round, “I know who you are. Hurray! You’re Peter. You see, I remember the name. Shall I give myself away and tell you why I remember?”
“Do. Do,” he urged.