And, on the other hand, it was decidedly repulsive to tell a lie—especially to her who seemed by her magnetic gaze to challenge the truth right out of a fellow. But conscience is, after all, only a name for our hidden prosecutor, judge and jury, and our sentences are light or heavy depending upon how many witnesses we can persuade to perjure themselves. No man lives who has not at some time used bribery in the mythical court room of his heart. Among women, of course, it is the accepted mode of legal procedure; and this gave me hope to believe that she might be somewhat forgiving when she found me out.
"Why Bronx?" she was asking again.
"Oh," I laughed, "it's a usual name in my part of the country, that's all—like Smith, and Jones."
I thought this would satisfy, but it gave her another thought, instead.
"Your name isn't Jackachobee, of course?"
"As far as Jack, yes. Every one calls me Jack."
A little while before this my cigarette case had fallen, to the ground by us. She had picked it up, and was even now turning it idly between her fingers.
"I see it here," she said, looking more closely at the monogram. "'J. B.' What does the B stand for, Mr.—Mr. Jack?"
"Brown," I answered desperately, and could feel every ancestor of a long and honorable line of Bronxes turning over in their graves. For I detest Brown. It's a good name, an exceptionally fine and distinguished name, the name not only of dear relatives but of very good friends. Yet it just so happened that at this particular moment I detested it—or was it the lie behind it? So to repair my self-esteem I blurted somewhat incoherently: "Bangs!"—having known a rather decent chap named Bangs.
"Is it spelled with a hyphen?" she glanced up rather quizzically. "Brown-Bangs?"