“Kiss them?” gasped Miss Clinton.
“Of no doubt,” said Madame Obosky readily. “Do they not pain because of me? Should I not kiss the hand who snatch me from the horrible death? From the Kingdom Come, as the doctor he say to me such a little time ago. And you, Mademoiselle, who have not been save by him from the Kingdom Come, you attend his hands and make him to be greatly comfortable.”
“I am merely dressing the burns, Madame Obosky,” said the other, coldly. “I have done as much for the other poor fellows who—”
“I know, I know,” broke in the Russian, smiling. “You must not be offend with me if I speak your language so badly.”
“It strikes me you speak it most acceptably,” interposed Percival.
“What is your name?” she asked abruptly. “I have heard you called the stowaway. No one has speak your name to me.”
“My name is Percival,” said he.
“It is a pretty name,” said she, dubiously. “But surely you do not approve of me to call you Percival so quick. What is the other name, the name I am to—”
“That's the trouble with a name like mine. It sounds so beastly informal when you leave off the Mister, and it sounds as if you'd been a servant in the family for at least one generation if you stick it on. If you could only call me Monsieur Percival, or Senor Percival, or even Herr Percival, it wouldn't seem so bad, but Mister Percival,—well, it's pretty soft, isn't it, Miss Clinton?”
“Please hold your hand still, Mr. Percival,” ordered the girl. She smiled up at the puzzled dancer. “His name is Mr. Percival, Madame Obosky. That's the poor creature's last name.”