"Oh!" gasped Cleone, becomingly flustered. "Gracious! Is it you, Mr. Bancroft?"
Mr. Bancroft said that it was. He was very modest about it, and he dubbed himself a clodhopping oaf so to have discommoded Cleone.
Cleone dimpled, curtseyed, and prepared to go on her way. This, however, Mr. Bancroft would not allow. He insisted on taking her basket, which, he protested, was monstrous heavy for her fair hands to support.
Cleone looked up at him provocatively.
"Sir, I fear I am a stranger to you!"
"A stranger! Why, madam, is it likely that once I had seen I could ever forget your sweet face?" cried Mr. Bancroft. "Those blue eyes, madam, left a deep imprint on my soul; those soft lips—"
"But," interrupted Cleone, blushing, "my name escaped your memory. Confess, Mr. Bancroft, it is indeed so?"
Mr. Bancroft waved his handkerchief with a superb gesture.
"A name—bah! What is it? 'Tis the face that remains with me. Names do, indeed, escape me. How could a mere name conjure up this fair image?" He bowed slightly. "Your name should be Venus, madam."
"Sir!" Cleone was shocked. "I am Cleone Charteris, Mr. Bancroft," she said primly.