"Amabel!" he repeated. "Then that is the only name by which at this moment I know you. 'Tis the loveliest name, and the most fitting one, I swear! If you would but make it needless, as far as concerns my calling you by name, that I should ever know any other! If you would but give me the right to call you by that name alone!"
"Give you the right?" said she in a low voice, and with downcast eyes. "As how?"
"As by your mere permission."
"After what you know?" Her voice was barely audible, her manner agitated.
"What do you mean?" asked Dick.
"That I am not the person I pretended to be."
"What difference does that make? Are you any less charming? 'Fore George, what's in a name,—unless it be Amabel?"
"'Tis not a mere matter of names. You remember what you said last night—"
"Yes—whatever it was, it all meant that you were adorable, and I mean that now a thousand times over!" He took her hand, which she did not withdraw from him.
"But you said something," she went on, in a voice yet lower and more unsteady, "of married persons and single,—of not injuring a man in a matter so sacred,—you remember?"