Then Miss Gorgas Levering yanked the twig from her braid, stood up, displayed two lithe young legs, shedding at once ten years of maturity.
He stood up, too. “Gorgas,” he began, and then stopped to look at her quizzically. “I can’t get used to that name,” he smiled. “With ‘Gorgas Lane’ just beyond the Unruh farm—” he waved a hand jokingly.
“But you!” she cried in defense—she knew all about him; he was “the professor” and a marked man. “‘Allen Blynn’—that’s a lane, too—Allen’s Lane! And that’s not so far away, either!”
Evidently the little lady was sensitive about her odd name.
“But Allen is a regular name,” he protested.
“So’s Gorgas!... And you’re ‘Allen L. Blynn,’ too; why, you’re a real ‘lane’!”
“Oh, I dropped the ‘L’ long ago—when grandmother died.”
“I never had it!” she exulted.
“But the ‘L’ isn’t for ‘lane,’” he shook his head sadly. “It’s much worse—it’s for ‘Lafayette.’”
“Oh!” she gasped her delight.