This was a poser.  To think, a person who, before our very eyes, had materialised out of the Blind Spot, was unable to tell us anything about it!

Still this lack of memory might be only a temporary condition, brought on by the special conditions under which she had emerged; an after-effect, as it were, of the semi-electrical phenomena.  And it turned out that I was right.

“Then,” suggested Charlotte, “suppose you ask us something.”

The girl’s eyes stopped roving and rested definitely, steadily, upon my own.  And she spoke; still a little hesitantly: 

“Who are you?  What is your name?”

“Name?” taken wholly by surprise.  “Ah—­it is Hobart Fenton.  And”—­ automatically—­“this is my sister Charlotte.  The gentleman over there is Mr. Jerome.”

“I am glad to know you, Hobart,” with perfect simplicity and apparent pleasure; “and you, Charlotte,” passing an arm round my sister’s neck; “and you—­Mister.”  Evidently she thought the title of “mister” to be Jerome’s first name.

Then she went on to say, her eyes coming back to mine: 

“Why do you look at me that way, Hobart?”

Just like that!  I felt my cheeks go hot and cold by turns.  For a moment I was helpless; then I made up my mind to be just as frank and candid as she.

“Because you’re so good to look at!” I blurted out.  “I never appreciated my eyesight as I do right now!”

“I am glad,” she returned, simply and absolutely without a trace of confusion or resentment.  “I know that I rather like to look at you—­too.”

Another stunned silence.  And this time I didn’t notice any change in the temperature of my face; I was too busily engaged in searching the depths of those warm blue eyes.

She didn’t blush, or even drop her eyes.  She smiled, however, a gentle, tremulous smile that showed some deep feeling behind her unwavering gaze.

I recovered myself with a start, drew my chair up in front of her and took both her hands firmly in mine.  Whereupon my resolution nearly deserted me.  How warm and soft, and altogether adorable they were.  I drew a long breath and began: 

“My dear—­By the way, what is your name?”

“I”—­regretfully, after a moment’s thought—­“I don’t know, Hobart.”

“Quite so,” as though the fact was commonplace.  “We will have to provide you with a name.  Any suggestions?”

Charlotte hesitated only a second.  “Let’s call her Ariadne; it was Harry’s mother’s name.”

“That’s so; fine!  Do you like the name—­Ariadne?”

“Yes,” both pleased and relieved.  At the same time she looked oddly puzzled, and I could see her lips moving silently as she repeated the name to herself.

Not for an instant did I let go of those wonderful fingers.  “What I want you to know, Ariadne, is that you have come into a world that is, perhaps, more or less like the one that you have just left.  For all I know it is one and the same world, only, in some fashion not yet understood, you may have transported yourself to this place.  Perhaps not.