“Not quite all around,” he ventured to point out.
“Oh, I don’t count; but I’m Jean—not the French way; just J-e-a-n.”
Philip smiled. “In that case, then, I’m Philip,” he said.
The eyes, that were so dark that in certain lights they seemed to be all pupil, grew thoughtful.
“I’ve always liked that name for a boy,” she asserted frankly. “And it fits you beautifully. Of course, you wouldn’t go and dig gold in the mountains.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” he demanded.
“Oh, just because the Philips don’t do such things.” And before he could think of the proper retort: “Why is everybody looking out of the windows on the other side of the car?”
“I’ll see,” he replied, and went to investigate. And when he returned: “We have come in sight of the mountains. Would you like to see them?”
“I’d love to!” was the eager response, and she got up and joined him in the aisle. But with more than half of the car’s complement crowding to the windows on the sight-seeing side there was no room for another pair of heads.
“Shall we go out to the platform?” he suggested, and at her nod he led the way to the swaying, racketing outdoor vantage where the car-wheel clamor made anything less than a shout inaudible, and the cinders showered them, and they had to cling to the hand-railings to keep from being flung into space.