She hesitated an instant. Then, abandoning pretense—for she, like Warden had lived through many hours of self–scrutiny since they parted at Portsmouth—she laughed unconcernedly.
“There is none that I know of,” she admitted. “I had never seen Plymouth, so I traveled here yesterday evening. My belongings are in the big hotel there. I am a mere excursionist, out for the day. And now that I have yielded all along the line, I demand my woman’s rights. My presence here is readily explained. What of yours?”
He hailed a passing carriage and directed the man to take them to the hotel.
“I don’t think I can really clear matters up to your satisfaction unless you permit me to call you Evelyn,” he said, daringly irrelevant.
Midsummer madness is infectious—under certain conditions.
“That is odd,” she cried, yet there was but feeble protest in her voice.
“To make things even you must call me Arthur.”
“How utterly absurd!”
“That is not my fault. The name was given me. I yelled defiance, but I had to have it, like the measles.”
“You know very well——”