"What shall we call you?" I asked.
"Anything you like. I've got a lot of names. One of them, curious to say, is the same as the name scribbled on the portrait just above the name of the painter. Did you ever notice it?"
"Do you mean the same name as Tib's second one?" I asked; "Regina?"
The young lady nodded her head.
"That's very funny," we said. "That's the name in the book in London too."
"What book?" she asked, quickly.
I hesitated a moment. Then I thought as I had said so much it would be stupid not to explain. So I told her. She looked sad and thoughtful as she listened.
"It was scored out, you said?" she asked.
"Yes, with a thick black stroke, as if somebody had been very angry when they did it," I said. "If we hadn't known the name, from its being Tib's, I don't think we could ever have made it out."
"Ah," said the young lady, and it sounded like a sigh. But in a moment she smiled again.