“I have just one name. I am Paula.”
For the life of him he did not know what to make of her. There was the possibility that she was playing with him. In that case she played her part amazingly well! There was the possibility that she spoke in actual as well as in seeming sincerity.
“Who is your father?” he asked abruptly.
And at her answer, calmly, quietly spoken, he was startled into the suspicion of the third possibility—madness.
For she had answered gravely:
“He is a king. His name is Midas.”
From under gathered brows his eyes probed at her like knives. Was she hoaxing him, or was she mad? Unless she was crazed why did she so cleverly seek to appear so? What maid stands out before a man, stranger though he be, and poses to him in the light of an insane woman? If she were not mad, then why was she striving to make him believe her so? Then why?
He had come to her for answers, and he but got new questions that were, as yet, unanswerable. When he spoke again it was thoughtfully.
“Why do you tell me your father is King Midas?” he asked.
“Because you said to me, ‘Who is your father?’”