At last Janet threw up her arms over her head and burst into a laugh, though she was alone--a laugh full of confusion and self-ridicule. Mean! Of course what it meant was as clear as daylight. Adol for Adolphus, or Dolff; Char for Charles, with the two last letters joined on to the Harwood--Adolphus Charles Harwood. What could be more clear? She might have known that it must be Dolff’s big, straggling hand. Janet laughed at herself till she cried, but subdued the sound, lest anyone should hear, and flung her scraps of paper into a box as if she had been playing at a letter game. Of course, that was what it was--an old copy-book of Dolff’s inscribed with his name--Adolphus Charles Harwood--after the usage of the school-room. How could she have been such a fool? She thought of Catherine Morland in “Northanger Abbey,” and blushed crimson and hid her face in her hands, though she was alone. How ridiculous she had made herself? Only, fortunately, nobody knew--not even Vicars knew. There was not much music downstairs that night, for the time of the ball was now very near, and everybody was interested in talking it over--the people who were coming, and where “Dolff’s men” were to be put up, and all the details. It had given the family a great deal of trouble, as Gussy had prophesied it would, and they liked to find a recompense for these fatigues and anxieties in endless discussions. Janet found an opportunity, while they were all busy with the box of programmes which had just arrived, of looking at the autograph upon Dolff’s music. It was, to her surprise, not at all like the sprawling hieroglyphics of the copy-book; but then, to be sure, he must have been a child when he had written the others. The music was all inscribed “A. Harwood” in a neat little concise hand. He saw her looking at it, and came up to her. “You are looking at those wretched old things of mine, Miss Summerhayes?” “No; I was only looking at your name on it. You don’t use your second name?” “For a very good reason--I haven’t got one. It’s a ridiculous name, isn’t it? I sign ‘D.’ always to my friends. But ‘A.’ is a good enough disguise. A great many fellows are Arthur, or Andrew or Alfred, or something like a man, so I creep among them. You never would suspect a man of being Adolphus, eh?” cried the young man, “if you saw only A. standing for his name?” “I don’t think I should,” said Janet; “but I thought you were Adolphus Charles.” She had a little tremor in her voice as she spoke, which was, half alarm at this betrayal of herself, and half-suppressed laughter, though she dared not laugh. “Oh, no; I have no Charles in my name. I wish I had. Shouldn’t I use it if I had the chance! You may laugh, Miss Summerhayes, but if you would only think how much nicer for a man it would be if his friends called him Charley instead of calling him Dolff!” “What are you talking of, Dolff?” Both Mrs. Harwood and Gussy had turned round at the sound of the name.