"No—oh, not at all!" said Jones hastily; "my name is Jones——"
The scorn deepened. "And—is this Mr. Smith?" she inquired, looking at Ellis.
"My name is Jones," said Jones so earnestly that his glasses fell off. "And what's worse, it's John Jones."
Something in his eye engaged her attention—perhaps the unwinking innocence of it. She wrote "John Jones" on her pad, noted his town address, and turned to Ellis, who was looking fixedly, but not offensively, at the girl with the expressive grey eyes.
"If you have a pad I'll surrender to you," he said, amiably. "There is glory enough for all here, as our admiral once remarked."
The grey eyes glimmered; a quiver touched the scarlet mouth. But a crash of nearer thunder whitened the smile on her lips.
"Helen, I'm going!" she said hastily to her of the brown eyes.
"That storm," said Ellis calmly, "has a long way to travel before it strikes the Caranay valley." He pointed with his rod, tracing in the sky the route of the crowding clouds. "Every storm that hatches behind the Golden Dome swings south along the Black Water first, then curves and comes around by the west and sweeps the Caranay. You have plenty of time to take my name."
"But—but the play? I was thinking of the play," she said, looking anxiously at the brown eyes, which were raised to the sky in silent misgiving.
"If you don't mind my saying so," said Ellis, "there is ample time for your outdoor theatricals—if you mean that. You need not look for that storm on the upper Caranay before late this afternoon. Even then it may break behind the mountains and you may see no rain—only a flood in the river."