"Blunt," said I, heroically truthful, and suppressing one of those primordial impulses which urged me to say Wilkinson—now, as a scientific problem, why Wilkinson? But I did not wish to lose Atkins' respect by conversing with a man who did not know my name.
"Miss Blunt?" cried he interrogatively. "That's rather odd, you know. It's not a very common name."
"Oh, I don't know," said I, uncandid again, as soon as I saw a chance to get through with it—little cat. "It seems awfully common to me. Why do you say that it's odd?"
"Because I happen to have a letter of introduction to Miss Blunt, daughter of the old—of Mr. Blunt of the Mid-Continent—"
"You have?" I broke in. "From whom?"
"From my cousin, Amelia Wyckoff," said he, "who went to school with her at St. Cecilia's."
"Well, of all things!" I began; and then, with a lot of presence of mind, I think, I paused. "Why don't you present it?" I asked.
"Well, it's this way," said Billy. "You saw how Mr. Blunt sailed into me and put me in the broom-brigade without a hearing? I didn't have the letter then, and when I got it I didn't feel like pulling on the social strings when I was coming on pretty well for a dub lineman and learning the business from the solder on the floor to the cupola, by actual physical contact. And then there's another thing, if you'll let me say it: since that morning I've had no place in my thoughts for any girl's face but one."
We were sitting on a bench. Atkins was looking at the baby leopards in the zoo, ever so far away. Billy didn't seem to miss her. He was looking right at me. My heart fluttered so that I knew my voice would quiver if I spoke, and I didn't dare to move my hands for fear he might notice their trembling. The idea of my behaving in that way!
I was glad to find out that he was Amelia's cousin; for that insured his social standing. That was what made me feel so sort of agitated. One laborer ought not to feel so of another, for we are all equal; but it was a relief to know that he was Amelia's aunt's son, and not a tramp.