“I am afraid you are tearing your skirt somehow,” he said anxiously.  “Let me——­”

“No!”

The desperation of the negative approached violence, and he involuntarily stepped back.

For a moment they faced one another; the flush died out on her cheeks.

“If,” she said, “your name actually is George, this—­this is the most—­ the most terrible punishment—­” She closed her eyes with her fingers as though to shut out some monstrous vision.

“What,” asked the amazed young man, “has my name to do with——­”

Her hands dropped from her eyes; with horror she surveyed him, his paste-spattered overalls, his dingy white cap, his dinner pail.

“I—­I won’t marry you!” she stammered in white desperation.  “I won’t! If you’re not a paper hanger you look like one!  I don’t care whether you’re a Harvard man or not—­whether you’re playing at paper hanging or not—­whether your name is George or not—­I won’t marry you—­I won’t!  I won’t!”

With the feeling that his senses were rapidly evaporating the young man sat down dizzily, and passed a paste-spattered but well-shaped hand across his eyes.

Sybilla set her lips and looked at him.

“I don’t suppose,” she said, “that you understand what I am talking about, but I’ve got to tell you at once; I can’t stand this sort of thing.”

“W-what sort of thing?” asked the young man, feebly.

“Your being here in this house—­with me——­”

“I’ll be very glad to go——­”

“Wait! That won’t do any good!  You’ll come back!”

“N-no, I won’t——­”

“Yes, you will.  Or I—­I’ll f-follow you——­”

“What?”

“One or the other!  We can’t help it, I tell you. You don’t understand, but I do.  And the moment I knew your name was George——­”

“What the deuce has that got to do with anything?” he demanded, turning red in spite of his amazement.

“Waves!” she said passionately, “psychic waves!  I—­somehow—­knew that he’d be named George——­”

“Who’d be named George?”

“He! The—­man...  And if I ever—­if you ever expect me to—­to c-care for a man all over overalls——­”

“But I don’t—­Good Heavens!—­I don’t expect you to care for—­for overalls——­”

“Then why do you wear them?” she asked in tremulous indignation.

The young man, galvanized, sprang from his chair and began running about, taking little, short, distracted steps.  “Either,” he said, “I need mental treatment immediately, or I’ll wake up toward morning....  I—­don’t know what you’re trying to say to me.  I came here to—­to p-paste——­”

“That machine sent you!” she said.  “The minute I got a spark you started——­”

“Do you think I’m a motor?  Spark!  Do you think I——­”

“Yes, I do.  You couldn’t help it; I know it was my own fault, and this—­ this is the dreadful punishment—­g-glued to a t-table top—­with a man named George——­”