"Bob? What a singular name!"

Miss Portfire's host here hastened to explain the origin of the
Princess's title.

"Then YOU are Bob." (Eye-glass.)

"No, my name is Grey,--John Grey." And he actually achieved a bow where
awkwardness was rather the air of imperfectly recalling a forgotten
habit.

"Grey?--ah, let me see. Yes, certainly. You are Mr. Grey the recluse,
the hermit, the philosopher, and all that sort of thing. Why, certainly;
Dr. Jones, our surgeon, has told me all about you. Dear me, how
interesting a rencontre! Lived all alone here for seven--was it seven
years?--yes, I remember now. Existed quite au naturel, one might say.
How odd! Not that I know anything about that sort of thing, you know.
I've lived always among people, and am really quite a stranger, I assure
you. But honestly, Mr.--I beg your pardon--Mr. Grey, how do you like
it?"

She had quietly taken his chair and thrown her cloak and hood over its
back, and was now thoughtfully removing her gloves. Whatever were the
arguments,--and they were doubtless many and profound,--whatever the
experience,--and it was doubtless hard and satisfying enough,--by which
this unfortunate man had justified his life for the last seven years,
somehow they suddenly became trivial and terribly ridiculous before this
simple but practical question.