The minutes ticked away and still they were silent. Then, of a sudden, with infinite tenderness in his voice, Johnson asked:
“What is your name, Girl—your real name?”
“Min—Minnie; my father’s name was Smith,” she told him, her eyes cast down under delicately tremulous lids.
“Oh, Minnie Sm—”
“But ’twa’n’t his right name,” quickly corrected the Girl, and unconsciously both rose to their feet. “His right name was Falconer.”
“Minnie Falconer—well, that is a pretty name,” commented Johnson; and raising her hand to his lips he pressed them against it.
“I ain’t sure that’s what he said it was—I ain’t sure o’ anythin’ only jest you,” she said coyly, burying her face in his neck.
“You may well be sure of me since I’ve loved—” Johnson’s sentence was cut short, a wave of remorse sweeping over him. “Turn your head away, Girl, and don’t listen to me,” he went on, gently putting her away from him. “I’m not worthy of you. Don’t listen but just say no, no, no, no.”
The Girl, puzzled, was even more so when Johnson began to pace the floor.
“Oh, I know—I ain’t good enough for you!” she cried with a little tremour in her voice. “But I’ll try hard, hard.... If you see anythin’ better in me, why don’t you bring it out, ’cause I’ve loved you ever since I saw you first, ’cause I knowed that you—that you were the right man.”