"We were talking of what?" asks she, with admirable courage, "of
names, was it not? An endless subject. _My_ name now? An absurd one
surely. Perpetua! I don't like Perpetua, do you?" She is evidently
talking at random.

"I do indeed!" says Hardinge, promptly and fervently. His tone
accentuates his meaning.

"Oh, but so harsh, so unusual!"

"Unusual! That in itself constitutes a charm."

"I was going to add, however--disagreeable."

"Not that--never that," says Hardinge.

"You mean to say you really _like_ Perpetua?" her large soft eyes
opening with amazement.

"It is a poor word," says he, his tone now very low. "If I dared say
that I _adored_ 'Perpetua,' I should be----"

"Oh, you laugh at me," interrupts she with a little impatient
gesture, "you _know_ how crude, how strange, how----"

"I don't, indeed. Why should you malign yourself like that?
You--_you--_who are----"

He stops short, driven to silence by a look in the girl's eye.