"Never mind," I answered. "You did. During your description you had her face vividly before your mind. The picture was in some telepathic way transferred from your brain to mine, and there it remained. The proof is that when I saw a certain lady to-day I recognised her at once and greeted her effusively as Valerie. Her name did happen to be Valerie, and Valerie Deane too, and I ran the risk of a police-station—and I don't think it was fair of you. What prompted you to deceive me?"
I was hurt and angry, and I spoke with some acerbity. Valerie drew herself up with dignity.
"If you claim an explanation, I will give it to you. We have had young men patients in the house before, and, as they had nothing to do, they have amused themselves and annoyed me by falling in love with me. I was tired of it, and decided that it shouldn't happen in your case. So I gave a false description of myself. To make it consistent, I took a real person for a model."
"So you were fooling me all the time?" said I, gathering hat and stick.
Her face softened adorably. Her voice had the tones of the wood-wind.
"Not all the time, Harold," she said.
I laid down hat and stick.
"Then why did you not undeceive me afterward?"
"I thought," she said, blushing and giving me a fleeting glance, "well, I thought you—you wouldn't be sorry to find I wasn't—bad looking."
"I am sorry, Valerie," said I, "and that's the mischief of it."