"Reginald Reinecourt Stanford is my name; and the reason I only gave you a third of it was, as I said before, because I liked you so much. You know, my dear little Rose, if I had told you that day on the ice my name was Reginald Stanford, you would have gone straight to the Hall, told the news, and had me brought here at once. By that proceeding I should have seen very little of you, of course. Don't you see?"
"Ye-e-e-s," very falteringly.
"I looked up that day from the ice," continued Stanford, "and saw such a dear little curly-headed, bright-eyed, rose-cheeked fairy, that—no, I can't tell you how I felt at the sight. I gave you my middle name, and you acted the Good Samaritan to the wounded stranger—came to see me every day, and made that sprained ankle the greatest boon of my life!"
"Mr. Stanford—"
"Call me Reginald."
"I cannot. Let me go! What would Kate say?"
"She will like it. She doesn't understand why you dislike me so much."
He laughed as he said it. The laugh implied so much, that Rose started up, colouring vividly.
"This is wrong! I must go. Don't hold me, Mr. Stanford."
"Reginald, if you please!"