“Do you really like it?”
“How could I help it? It’s you, I tell you—so sound, sane, determined and a little prim, too.”
“I’m not prim.”
“Yes,” he decided, “you’re prim—when you think that you ought to be.”
“Oh.”
He seated himself beside her, looking at her quizzically as though she was a person he had never seen before—as though the half-identity she provided had invested her with new and unexpected attributes.
“It was nice of you to tell me. My name is Phil,” he said.
“Is it?” she asked almost mechanically.
“Yes, don’t you like it?”
Her glance moved quickly from one object to another—the shelter, the balsam bed, and the crutch which leaned against the door flap.