“No.”

“In spite of my eyes and hair?”

“In spite of your eyes and hair—­you see, a woman knows instinctively whom she must fear and whom not to fear.”

“Well?”

“And you are one I do not fear, and, I think, never should.”

“Hum!” said I, rubbing my chin, “I am only twenty-five!”

“Twenty-five is—­twenty-five!” said she demurely.

“And yet, I am very like—­him—­you said so yourself!”

“Him!” she exclaimed, starting.  “I had forgotten all about him.  Where is he—­what has become of him?” and she glanced apprehensively towards the door.

“Half way to Tonbridge—­or should be by now.”

“Tonbridge!” said she, in a tone of amazement, and turned to look at me again.

“Tonbridge!” I repeated.

“But he is not the man to—­to run away,” said she doubtfully —­“even from you.”

“No, indeed!” said I, shaking my head, “he certainly did not run away, but circumstances—­and a stone, were too much—­even for him.”

“A stone?”

“Upon which he—­happened to fall, and strike his head—­very fortunately for me.”

“Was he—­much hurt?”

“Stunned only,” I answered.

She was still kneeling beside my chair, but now she sat back, and turned to stare into the fire.  And, as she sat, I noticed how full and round and white her arms were, for her sleeves were rolled high, and that the hand, which yet held the sponge, was likewise very white, neither big nor little, a trifle wide, perhaps, but with long, slender fingers.  Presently, with a sudden gesture, she raised her head and looked at me again—­a long, searching look.

“Who are you?” she asked suddenly.

“My name,” said I, “is Peter.”

“Yes,” she nodded, with her eyes still on mine.

“Peter—­Smith,” I went on, “and, by that same token, I am a blacksmith—­very humbly at your service.”

“Peter—­Smith!” she repeated, as though trying the sound of it, hesitating at the surname exactly as I had done.  “Peter—­Smith! —­and mine is Charmian, Charmian—­Brown.”  And here again was a pause between the two names.

“Yours is a very beautiful name,” said I, “especially the Charmian!”

“And yours,” she retorted, “is a beautifully—­ugly one!”

“Yes?”

“Especially the—­Peter!”

“Indeed, I quite agree with you,” said I, rising, “and now, if I may trouble you for the towel—­thank you!” Forthwith I began to dry my face as well as I might on account of my injured thumb, while she watched me with a certain elusive merriment peeping from her eyes, and quivering at me round her lips, an expression half mocking, half amused, that I had seen there more than once already.  Wherefore, to hide from her my consciousness of this, I fell to towelling myself vigorously, so much so, that, forgetting the cut in my brow, I set it bleeding faster than ever.