"Some day I'll tell you," she said finally. "Next question!"
"Where in the world did you pick up the name?"
"Pick up? What do you mean?"
"The 'Doré.' It wasn't your own!"
"Oh, I found it," she said, turning away hastily, as if afraid he might have guessed.
That was one thing she could never tell him, no matter where future confidences might lead her. It had, in truth, been the suggestion of a certain Josh Nebbins, press-agent for a local theater, who had once adored her fatuously—one of those forgotten minor incidents, lost in the impenetrable mists of an outlived beginning, an indiscretion that she wished to forget, an impossible admirer of the days when her taste had not been cultivated.
Luckily, in this moment of her confusion the telephone saved her.
"Shall I close my ears?" he said instantly.
"The idea! Do you think I haven't learned how to telephone?" she said indignantly. "See how much you can gather from it!"
He waited, availing himself of her permission to listen, seeking in vain to patch sense in the guarded replies that came to him: