He turned and looked her full in the face. In a moment her eyes dropped before his frank scrutiny. She felt the glow rising across her forehead. When she raised her head again he was staring calmly at the fire as before, one hand clasped under his arm, the other holding the bowl of his brier pipe.
"Now," said he, "I will ask a few questions. Won't this all-night absence alarm your relatives?"
"Oh, no. I often spend the night at the Adamses'. They will think I am there."
"Parents are apt to be anxious."
"But mine are not here, you see."
"What is your name?"
"Barbara Lowe."
He fell silent. Barbara was distinctly piqued. He might have exhibited a more flattering interest.
"Is that all you want to know about me?" she cried in an injured tone.
"I know all about you now. Listen: Your name is Barbara Lowe; you come from Detroit, where you are not yet 'out'; you are an only child; and eighteen or nineteen years of age."