"You are a poet, Jim," said Silvette admiringly. "I read one of your rhymes in Life once, and didn't think so."
"Diana made me a poet. If you'd seen her as she came stealing across the window, which was all glittering like a Japanese sunburst, you'd have become a poet, too!" He began to laugh. "I even created a name for you, Diana; it came to me—was already on my lips——"
"What name?" she asked, looking composedly at him.
"Japonette! ... I never before heard such a name. I don't believe there ever was such a name before it suddenly twitched at my lips for utterance! Japonette!"
"Why didn't you utter it if you were so enchanted with your discovery?"
"Because you seemed to be sufficiently scared as it was."
She shrugged, and handed him his tea. "Japonette," she repeated reflectively; "I don't know whether or not I care for it. It sounds frivolous."
"Which you are not!"
She lifted her blue eyes to his.
"You think I am," she said.