"I think," he said, "that I shall see all girls for ever as I see you at this minute."
"Oh, you must not." Joan gave a sob. "They are not like me, really."
There was an awkward silence. Then:
"Will you tell me your name? Will you try to trust me—just a little? It would prove it, if you only would."
"I do not want you to know my name. You must promise to keep from knowing. It is all I ask."
"Will you let me tell you—mine?"
"No! no!" Joan put up her hands as if to ward off something tangible.
"I only meant"—Raymond dropped his eyes—"that there isn't anything under heaven I wouldn't do to prove to you my sense of remorse. I thought if you knew you might call upon me some day to prove myself. I'm bungling, I know, but I wish I could make you understand how I feel."
"I do." And now Joan got up rather unsteadily. "And some day—I—I may call upon you—for—for I have known your name—always!"
"What!"