“Well, suppose we talk about ourselves; that wouldn’t be behind our own backs, would it?”
“Oh no!” came with a pretty jingle of laughter.
“Do you know my name? Dick.”
“I thought so,” replied the little girl.
“You did!—why?”
“You look like a Dick.”
“Well, that’s just like a girl’s bosh—but still, you’re right: I am Dick Gregory, son of George Gregory, surgeon, living at Lakely, next station to Cherton, where you get out, you know.”
The girl nodded.
“Now, mademoiselle, what may your name be?” he asked, as the train carried them into the station with a whiz.
“Inna Weston.”