"We were talking of what?" asks she, with admirable courage, "of names, was it not? An endless subject. My name now? An absurd one surely. Perpetua! I don't like Perpetua, do you?" She is evidently talking at random.
"I do indeed!" says Hardinge, promptly and fervently. His tone accentuates his meaning.
"Oh, but so harsh, so unusual!"
"Unusual! That in itself constitutes a charm."
"I was going to add, however—disagreeable."
"Not that—never that," says Hardinge.
"You mean to say you really like Perpetua?" her large soft eyes opening with amazement.
"It is a poor word," says he, his tone now very low. "If I dared say that I adored 'Perpetua,' I should be——"
"Oh, you laugh at me," interrupts she with a little impatient gesture, "you know how crude, how strange, how——"
"I don't, indeed. Why should you malign yourself like that?
You—_you—_who are——"