HER NERVOUS PROSTRATION
had n’t been the sort of person who confides at first sight we should have learned each other’s names at the beginning and been on guard. The truth is, I had thought of no one but Tom Beckett in her confessions; the personality of “the other man” had stolen into the chronicle so late in the day that I had taken no interest in him.
“Are you Amy Darling?” I asked her plump.
“Yes, but how mean of you to pump Blossom! I wanted to go on thinking of you as Zuleika and have you call me something imaginary and romantic.”
“I am Philippa Armstrong. Did you ever hear the name?”
“No, but it’s all right; it looks like you, and it’s nearly as pretty as Zenobia. Now if Tom Beckett had only chosen you and I could have obliged Laura by falling in love with—”
“Don’t mention the other man’s name!” I cried hastily; “it just comes to me that I may have met him.”
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