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As the rider wheeled away I blurted out with anxious loudness in the general hubbub, "Isn't his brother with him?"

Well, he thought a girl might be prettiest at eighteen and handsomest much later. And again I said to myself, "Charlotte Oliver!" But when I looked searchingly into his eyes their manly sweetness so abashed me that I dropped my glance and felt him looking at me. I remembered my fable and flinched. "Isn't your name--" I cried, and choked, and when I would have said Ferry, another word slipped out instead. He did not hear it plainly:

"And yet you never take a lady's name for granted?"

I dilated. "Who told--did Ned Ferry tell you that story?"

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