“Yes. One minute, and we’ll be off!”
He slipped on his shuba, threw open the bag, stuffed his pockets, then closed the bag again.
“Come now,” he cried, almost gaily, starting for the door.
“But wait.” He looked at her with a quizzical smile. “Don’t you think it’s—er—rather nice for a husband and wife to know one another’s name?”
She smiled back. “Why yes, it would be a convenience.”
“Well—?”
“You called me Mary.”
“Yes, but that—”
“My name is Mary Davis,” she said. And for all that she still smiled, he knew he would get no other name.
“Then I’m to remain John Davis, I suppose. But in my case there’s no reason you should not know my real name. It’s Henry Drexel.”