He heard people whispering with a shrillness that Persis had evidently grown accustomed to, for she could not have helped hearing, yet showed no sign. And now Forbes recaptured her last name, and it was familiar to him, little as he knew of social chronicles.
"Look! That's Persis Cabot," said one. "There's the Cabot girl you read so much about," said another. "She's got a sister who's a Countess or Marquise, or something." Then Forbes learned by roundabout the last name of Willie, and learned it with alarm from two of the sharpest whisperers:
"That's Willie Enslee with her, I suppose."
"I guess so."
"Don't see why they call that big fellow Little Willie."
"Just a joke, I guess."
"They say he's worth twenty million dollars."
"He looks it."
At any other time it would have amused Forbes immensely to be called so far out of his name and to receive twenty million dollars by acclamation.
But now he could only busy himself with deductions: why did they assume that any man who was with Persis Cabot was sure to be Willie Enslee? Could it mean—what else could it mean?