She drew herself up and put her hands behind her.
“Is that the way you take it, Mr. Winton?”
The acrid laugh came again.
“Would you have me tear a passion to tatters? My ancestors were not French.”
Trying as the moment was, she could not miss her opportunity.
“How can you tell when you don't know your grandfather's middle name?” she said, half crying.
His laugh at this was less acrid. “Adams again? My grandfather had no middle name. But I mustn't keep you out here in the cold talking genealogies.”
His hand was on the door to open it for her. Like a flash she came between, and her fingers closed over his on the door-knob.
“Wait,” she said. “Have I done all this—humbled myself into the very dust—to no purpose?”
“Not if you will give me the one priceless word I am thirsting for.”