"I forgot that burglars do not, as a rule, I suppose, go about in evening clothes; and I should have remembered"—with a smile—"that there was yet another cousin to whom I had not been introduced."
"Yes; I am Fabian Blount," he says indifferently. He does not return her smile. Almost he gives her the impression that at this moment he would gladly have substituted another name for his own.
"Ah! you are Fabian," she says, half-puzzled by his manner.
"If you will take my word for it." His tone is even more strange as he says this, and now he does smile, but disagreeably.
Portia colors faintly.
"You have not asked me my name?" she says quietly. "I am Portia."
"What a very pretty name!" He has had a half-smoked cigar behind his back all this time; now remembering it, he looks at it, and flings it far from him. "It reminds one of many things; Shakespeare, I suppose principally. I hope," looking at her, "you will choose the right casket."
"Thank you. That is a very kindly wish."
"How does it happen that you are here all alone?"
"I was cold; I always am. Dulcinea saw me shiver, I think, and ran to get a shawl or some covering for me. That is all."