"It is not good," I pleaded, "for man to be alone."
"I have heard," said she, "that—almost any one can cite scripture to his purpose."
I thrust out a foot for inspection. "No suggestion of a hoof," said I; "and not the slightest odour of brimstone, as you will kindly note; and my inoffensive name is Robert Townsend."
"Of course," she submitted, "I could never think of making your acquaintance in this irregular fashion; and, therefore, of course, I could not think of telling you that my name is Marian Winwood."
"Of course not," I agreed; "it would be highly improper."
"—And it is more than time for me to go to supper," she concluded again, with a lacuna, as it seemed to me, in the deduction.
"Look here!" I remonstrated; "it isn't anywhere near six yet." I exhibited my watch to support this statement.
"Oh!" she observed, with wide, indignant eyes.
"I—I mean—" I stammered.
She rose to her feet.