“A mustard foot-bath and some quinine, please,” he asked with a queer laugh.
But she refused to smile. “You slept in your soaking clothes last night,” severely.
He shrugged his shoulders and laughed again.
“That’s nothing. I’ve done that often. Besides, what else could I do? If you had wakened me——”
“That is unkind.”
She was on the verge of tears. So he got to his feet quickly and shaking himself like a shaggy dog, faced her almost jauntily.
“I’m right as a trivet,” he announced. “And I’m going to call you Hebe—the cup-bearer to the gods—or Euphrosyne. Which do you like the best?”
“I don’t like either,” she said with a pucker at her brow. And then with the demureness which so became her. “My name is—is Jane.”
“Jane!” he exclaimed. “Jane! of course. Do you know I’ve been wondering, ever since we’ve been here what name suited you best, Phyllis, Millicent, Elizabeth, and a dozen others I’ve tried them all; but I’m sure now that Jane suits you best of all. Jane!” he chuckled gleefully. “Yes, it does—why, it’s you. How could I ever have thought of anything else?”
Her lips pouted reluctantly and finally broke into laughter, which showed her even white teeth and discovered new dimples.