"Better than you think, p'raps," replied Smith mysteriously. "Shall I tell you her name?"
"Really, Mr. Smith, I don't think it concerns me in the slightest what the lady's name is."
"But it does!" he almost shouted, raising himself on his elbow and staring at her hard.
For the first time Dora Fletcher began to see the trend of all this. She rose from the locker upon which she had been seated.
"I must leave you now," she said a little coldly. "I have to——"
"Half a mo'," broke in Smith, "you haven't heard the lady's name yet."
"I don't think I want to, thanks. It's not a matter which——"
"Isn't it! You wait. The lady's name is Dora Fletcher—how about that?"
An angry flush mounted to the girl's face, and then, being blessed with that rare possession, a sense of humour, she had much ado to prevent herself from laughing outright.
"I'm afraid I can't oblige you, Mr. Smith," she said. "Although, of course, I appreciate the honour you've done me."