“Mine, though!” laughed Cis. “I’m called Cis. Haven’t you a name; chorus or hymn, if mine’s a song?”
“Yes, but it’s just a name, nothing in the musical line. Hope you don’t mind names parted in the middle? My name is George Rodney Moore, but I use the middle name, sign G. Rodney, you know,” said the young man, and he looked as if he really hoped that Cis would not disapprove his name.
“Gee! Rodney!” cried Cis, but quickly added, as if she feared to hurt him by what was not ridicule, but unavoidable nonsense:
“Rodney is a fine name; I like it. I don’t blame you for shedding the George, and using it. I suppose I’d drop George altogether, and keep only Rodney, but you can do that later, if you want to. Oh, do you like stuffy tea rooms? Why not go out into the air—that is, if you really want to lighten my gloom?”
“It’s the other way about, Miss Adair. I should like being out on this fine day, but you surely have been taught by this time that you are sent into the world to lighten the gloom of any man whom you will tolerate,” G. Rodney Moore said experimentally.
They had turned toward the side entrance of the hotel; in the doorway Cis stopped short.
“See here, none of that; cut it out, if you please,” she said. “I like boys, but I don’t like them one bit when they forget I’m not one, and you wouldn’t say that sort of thing to a boy, now would you?”
“No, I’m free to confess that I would not!” cried Moore, and he chuckled. “All right, old chap, you’re the kind that makes it jolly for a pal—better?”
“Heaps!” said Cis, and laughed. “You lead; you know the country and I don’t.”
“Like to walk? Because I know a nice place, but it’s fairly far, and taxis grow in this soil, if you’ll have one,” suggested Moore.