"Yes," she nodded, with her eyes still on mine.
"Peter—Smith," I went on, "and, by that same token, I am a blacksmith—very humbly at your service."
"Peter—Smith!" she repeated, as though trying the sound of it, hesitating at the surname exactly as I had done. "Peter—Smith!—and mine is Charmian, Charmian—Brown." And here again was a pause between the two names.
"Yours is a very beautiful name," said I, "especially the Charmian!"
"And yours," she retorted, "is a beautifully—ugly one!"
"Yes?"
"Especially the—Peter!"
"Indeed, I quite agree with you," said I, rising, "and now, if I may trouble you for the towel—thank you!" Forthwith I began to dry my face as well as I might on account of my injured thumb, while she watched me with a certain elusive merriment peeping from her eyes, and quivering at me round her lips, an expression half mocking, half amused, that I had seen there more than once already. Wherefore, to hide from her my consciousness of this, I fell to towelling myself vigorously, so much so, that, forgetting the cut in my brow, I set it bleeding faster than ever.
"Oh, you are very clumsy!" she cried, springing up, and, snatching the towel from me, she began to stanch the blood with it. "If you will sit down, I will bind it up for you."
"Really, it is quite unnecessary," I demurred.