"I think," leaning towards him with a friendly smile, "I cannot do better than begin our acquaintance by telling you my name. It is Monica Beresford."
"Monica," lingering over it lovingly; "a beautiful name, I think. I think, too, it suits you. Mine is not to be compared to yours; but, such as it is, I give it you!"
He throws a card into her lap.
"I hope it isn't John Smith," says Monica, smiling and picking up the card. But, as she reads what is printed thereon, the smile fades, and an expression of utter dismay overspreads her face.
"'Desmond'—Oh! not Desmond!" she says, imploringly, her lips growing quite pale.
"Yes, it is Desmond," says the young man, half amused, half puzzled. "You really think it ugly, then! Do you know I rather fancy my surname, although my Chris——"
"You are not—you cannot be the Desmond," interrupts she, hastily.
"No; that's my uncle," says the young man, innocently.
"Oh! then you acknowledge the crime?" in deep distress.
"I didn't know that an old Irish title must necessarily be connected with guilt," says her companion, fairly puzzled.