“Have you had a worrying letter?” asked the girl.
He shook his head.
“No, no,” he said, a little impatiently; “it is nothing.”
She had hoped for a glimpse of the envelope, but was disappointed. Curiously enough, she ascribed the fact that her husband passed under a strange name and would not divulge his own, to a cause which was far from the truth, and was a great injustice to a man who, if he had not given her his proper name, had given her a title to whatever name he had. That thought she revealed for the first time.
“Do you know what I think?” she said unexpectedly.
“I didn’t know you thought very much,” he smiled. “In what particular department of speculation does your mind wander?”
“Don’t be sarcastic,” she answered. She was a little afraid of sarcasm, as are all children and immature grown-ups. “It was about your name I was thinking.”
He frowned.
“Why the dickens don’t you leave my name alone?” he snapped. “I have told you that it is all for your good that I’m called Benson and known as Benson in this town. When we go to London you will discover my name.”
She nodded.