“Lo,” she said aloud—not very loud—and giggled softly at the sound, so much less like a man’s given name than “Tom” or “Roger” or “Rupert.” “Lo!” And yet—and yet—what about “Llewellyn” and “Silas” and “Jonas”? She knew a charming man here in Washington whose name was “Silas.” She rather thought that she’d prefer to call her brother—if she had one—“Lo” to calling him “Silas” or “Llewellyn” or “Jonas.” And “Heinrich”! Yes—she certainly’d rather own to a brother “Lo” than to a brother “Heinrich.” “Sên”—“Sên” wasn’t so bad, really it wasn’t. She thought it a far nicer name than “Watkins” or “Snider” or “Green” or “Pink” or “Higginbotham.” “Lo.” “Jo.” “Jo”—she was rather fond of “Jo”—much as she disliked “Joseph.” There were quite a lot of English names she disliked. There was not much difference between “Lo” and “Jo”—very little difference indeed. “Jo” was the nicer, of course—it sounded more masculine, and it looked so. But—after all—— She drew the book nearer, and turned a page. How well this new Chinese acquaintance—whom Charlie liked so much—wrote English. _And_ you could read it! It was a “’varsity hand”—but perfectly legible, which so many ’varsity handwritings were not. It had all their hall-marks—the Greek _e’s_, the quickness and smallness, the nice absence of flourish. But it had individuality, and such courteous clearness! How English it was! It seemed almost impossible that the man who wrote it was not English. She turned back a page, and looked hard and long at the Chinese signature—giggling again at the ridiculousness it looked to her. Charlie said her giggle was like a Chinese girl’s! Well—what if it was? Probably many Chinese girls were very nice—and were charming. She liked Mr. Sên. The girls here in Washington were silly about him—and odious. But she liked him in a sensible, straightforward way—as a sensible, straightforward, and very interesting acquaintance. It seemed funny for a man to have such small and delicate hands, but when he had swung her up to her saddle she had felt his hand rock-sure and steel-strong under her foot and her weight. How beautiful her lilies were—and how sweet! The girl and her flowers made a pretty picture, as she lounged there—even Chinese eyes must have thought so, could they have seen her all rumpled, but dainty, as she lay there in her bed, thinking thoughts she little knew, one hand holding the sweet flowers to her face—the blue eiderdown heaped with them and their long green leaves—one hand resting on a Chinese confession. CHAPTER XVI