"Yes. Dolores," she said, with an evidently accustomed Spanish accent. "And the last name?" he persisted in despair, noting with some busy corner of his mind that they were drifting down Fifth Avenue. "That is all there are," she assured him, "surely three different names are sufficient for one person? I do not use the last two--only Margarita." Roger squared his shoulders, took the banknotes from her unresisting hand and gravely folded them into her bag before he spoke again. "Listen to me, Miss Margarita," he said slowly and with exaggerated articulation, as one speaks to a child, "what was your father's name? What did the people in the town you live in call him?" "I told you we lived by the sea--did you forget?" she answered, a shade reprovingly. "There is no town at all. And there are no people. We live alone." "But your servants must have called him something?" he persisted. "Hester called my father 'sir' and the boy cannot talk, of course," she said. "Why not?" "Because he is dumb. His name is Caliban," she added hastily, "and he has no other, only that one." "What is Hester's name?" Roger demanded doggedly. "Hester Prynne," said Margarita Josephine Dolores, "and I have had nothing to eat since the man with the shining buttons gave me meat between bread a great many hours ago. I wish I might see another such man. He might be willing to give me more. Will you look out and tell me if you see one?" "For heaven's sake," Roger cried, "you are hungry! You should have said so before--why didn't you?" He called out a name to the cabman who took them quickly to a place now called "the old one," because the new one is filled with people who endeavour consistently to look newer than they are, I suppose. The wine is newer certainly, and the manners. At this place, then, in a quaint old corner, they found themselves, and Roger bespoke a meal calculated to please a young woman far more exigent than this lonely dweller by the sea was likely to be. The clearest of soups, the driest of sherry in a tiny glass, something called by the respectful and understanding waiter "_sole frite_," which was at any rate, quite as good as if it had been that, a hot and savoury _poulet roti_--and Roger, who had been too busy to take luncheon, looked about him, contentedly well fed, rested his eyes with the clean, coarse linen, the red wine in its straw basket that had come with the _poulet_, the quiet, worn fittings of the little old-world place, and realised with a shock of surprise that his companion had not spoken a word since the meal began.