“I’m only an offshoot. A scribbling Pell.”
“Didn’t think such a thing was possible!”
They laughed, knowing the Pell characteristics.
Wilfred thought: She has not read my stories. . . . But why should she? I must say something at once, or she’ll turn back to the other man. . . .
When it came, it sounded feeble. “I hate to be asked my name. I dislike it so much!”
“What, Wilfred?” she asked carelessly. “Yes, it is rather in the Percy and Harold class.”
“One’s mouth takes such a foolish shape in saying it.”
Her cool, strong glance sought his eyes appraisingly. There was a thought in her eyes that she did not utter; but he read it.
“You think Wilfred suits me?” he said smiling, and sore at heart.
“I wasn’t thinking,” she said coolly. “. . . You have nice eyes.”