"I'm trying of course--" explained Philip, "trying to tell you my name.
I greatly regret," he went on deferentially, "that there are a number
of exceptional circumstances which have resulted in the brief and
simple--Philip. For one thing, a bump which muddles a man's common
sense is very likely to muddle his memory. And so, for the life of me,
I can't seem to conjure up a desirable form of address from you to me
except Philip. And Philip," he added humbly, "isn't really such a bad
sort of name after all."

There was the whir and flash of a bird's wing in the forest the color
of Diane's cheek. An instant later the single vivid spot of crimson in
Philip's line of vision was the back of his lady's sweater.




CHAPTER XII

A BULLET IN ARCADIA

"It's time you were in bed," said Diane. "Johnny's out staring at the
moon and that's the final chore of the evening. Besides, it's nine
o'clock."

"I shan't go to bed," Philip protested. "Johnny spread this tarpaulin
by the fire expressly for me to recline here and think and smoke and
b'jinks! I'm going to! After buying me two shirts yesterday and
tobacco to-day--to say nothing of bringing home an unknown chicken for
invalid stew, I can't with decency offend him."