"Oh, forgive me! It is a name we used to have, long ago, for Professor Nicolovius."
A shadow crossed his brow. "He is extremely well, I believe."
"You are still glad that you ran off with him to live tête-à-tête in a bridal cottage?"
"Oh, I suppose so. Yes, certainly!"
His frank face betrayed that the topic was unwelcome to him. For he hated all secrets, and this secret, from this girl, was particularly obnoxious to him. And beyond all that part of it, how could he analyze for anybody his periods of strong revolt against his association with Henry G. Surface, followed by longer and stranger periods when, quite apart from the fact that his word was given and regrets were vain, his consciousness embraced it as having a certain positive value?
He rose restlessly, and in rising his eye fell upon the little clock on the mantel.
"Good heavens!" broke from him. "I had no idea it was so late! I must go directly. Directly."
"Oh, no, you mustn't think of it. Your visit to me has just begun—all this time you have been calling on Beverley Byrd."
"Why do you think I came here to-night?" he asked abruptly.
Sharlee, from her large chair, smiled. "I think to see me."