“Do you like an automobile?” asked the old man.
“I don’t know, I never had one.”
The stranger looked at her confidingly. “My daughter has one,” he said, “and I know she bought it for me, and she has me taken out in it, but I am afraid. It goes too fast. I can’t get over being afraid. But you won’t tell her, will you, Ann Eliza?”
“Of course I won’t.”
Ellen continued to gaze at him, but she did not speak.
“Let me see, what is your name, my dear?” the man went on. He was leaning on his stick, and Ellen noticed that he trembled slightly, as though with weakness. He breathed hard. The veinous hands folded on top of the stick were almost as white as his ears.
“My name is Ellen Dix,” she said.
“Dix—Dix?” repeated the man. “Why, I know that name, certainly, of course! You must be the daughter of Cephas Dix. Odd name, Cephas, eh?”
Ellen nodded, her eyes still busy with the details of the stranger’s appearance. She was sure she had never seen him before, yet he knew her father’s name.
“My father has been dead a long time,” she said; “ever since I was a little girl.”