the hero of your book."

Shirley looked at him with amused curiosity.

"What do you mean?" she asked. "What do you want me to call you?"

"Oh, I don't know," he stammered, rather intimidated by this
self-possessed young woman who looked him calmly through and
through. "Why not call me Jefferson? Mr. Ryder is so formal."

Shirley laughed outright, a merry, unrestrained peal of honest
laughter, which made the passers-by turn their heads and smile,
too, commenting the while on the stylish appearance of the two
Americans whom they took for sweethearts. After all, reasoned
Shirley, he was right. They had been together now nearly every
hour in the day for over a month. It was absurd to call him Mr.
Ryder. So, addressing him with mock gravity, she said:

"You're right, Mr. Ryder--I mean Jefferson. You're quite right.
You are Jefferson from this time on, only remember"--here she
shook her gloved finger at him warningly--"mind you behave
yourself! No more such sentimental speeches as you made just now."

Jefferson beamed. He felt at least two inches taller, and at that
moment he would not have changed places with any one in the world.
To hide the embarrassment his gratification caused him he pulled
out his watch and exclaimed:

"Why, it's a quarter past six. We shall have all we can do to get
back to the hotel and dress for dinner."