“Oh,” I said right out, like the simple mountain person I am, “are you the—”
Then, of course, I stopped and turned a strange and beautiful red, something, I imagine, the color of a faded American beauty rose.
“Yes,” he said smiling, “I am. At least I hope I am. I’m not sure.”
“What, please,” I said, “is your name? I know all about your noble qualities, but I do not know your name.”
“My name,” he said, “is Vance Grévy.”
“Oh!” was all I could say, thinking how this was probably the particular person madam grandmother had picked out for me. Of course I couldn’t keep back my silly self-conscious grin, and he smiled in much the same way I did.
“May I present you,” I said, feeling very “heady,” the way Paprika used to on a cold morning, “to my madam grandmother?”
“Thank you,” he said, “I have just had the honor of talking with her. You were so surrounded that I waited for a moment before venturing to come to you.”
He smiled more than ever. I summoned my courage. I think it was my courage. Perhaps it didn’t deserve so good a name.
“May I inquire what she said to you?”