"You used that long ago," she remarked carelessly; "very long ago."
He replaced the book in his pocket, his steady eyes upon her.
"That's what we get for rifling our neighbour's pockets," he said quietly, "and what we deserve."
"No," she returned with equal gravity, "sometimes we get apples—or even peanuts, which we don't deserve."
He took no notice of the retort, but answered half-absently a former question.
"Yes; I used that long ago," he said. "You don't think I would write your name 'Genia' now, do you?"
There was a dignity in his assumption of indifference—in his absolute refusal to betray himself, which bore upon her conception of his manhood. There was strength in his face, strength in his voice, strength in his quiet hand that lay upon her bridle. She looked down on him with thoughtful eyes.
"If you wrote of me at all," she returned. "It is my name."
"But I am not to call you by it."
"Why not?"