"Do you happen to know her name?" she asked.
"I know what I wish her name was," John promptly answered. "I wish to Heaven it was Blanchemain."
Maria Dolores gazed, pensive, at the moon. "He does not even know her name," she remarked, on a key of meditation, "though he fears," she sadly shook her head, "he fears it may be Smitti."
"Oh, I say!" cried John, wincing, with a kind of sorry giggle; and I don't know whether he looked or felt the more sheepish. His face showed every signal of humiliation, he tugged nervously at his beard, but his eyes, in spite of him, his very blue blue eyes were full of vexed amusement.
The bell in the clock-tower struck eight.
"There—it is your hour for going to Annunziata," said Maria Dolores.
"You have not answered my question?" said John.
"I will think about it," said she.