"I do feel like a thief, though," she added soberly. "Why, everything I possess has been bought fraudulently." "You couldn't help it! Chuck 'em away, if it'll make you feel better!" "I can't chuck 'em all away," and this time we both laughed. "You can as soon as we reach New York, and--and----" But as I did not know how to finish this, I stopped; for what had been in my mind was: "When you and I share all I own!"--and, of course, that wouldn't have done to say aloud. For perhaps a minute she, also, was silent. Then she turned, with the frankest, sweetest manner I have ever seen, and said in a voice of mellifluent charm: "Do you know that you've been just awfully splendid?" I knew that my face got very red, but I tried to answer casually enough: "The splendid things were done by Tommy, Gates, Smilax, and the other fellows. You'll like Tommy, and Monsieur knows--did I tell you he knows your mother?" "Don't," she whispered. "You make me feel like I'm being led into a new world, with new people, and new customs, and new things!" Now her eyes widened as if making a discovery, as she added: "My fa----, that is, Mr. Graham, must actually have recognized Monsieur Dragot!" "There's no other deduction," I agreed. "Our case is proved almost beyond a doubt. Don't call that fellow your father again, or even Mr. Graham. Smilax and I have a name we'll share with you." "What?" "Efaw Kotee." Her laughter rippled through the wood, as she cried: "How perfectly lovely! I know what it means!" "Then you speak Seminole, Miss--Miss--but you say it isn't Sylvia?" An expression of happy mischief in her face made it adorable. "No, it isn't Sylvia. It's Doloria--you see, my life has been sad!" "One wouldn't say so to look at you now. And I think Doloria's a thousand times prettier than Sylvia! Doloria! Just Doloria--like that?" For I wanted an excuse to keep on saying it. "I--I suppose so," she hesitated. "Of course, it's always had Graham after it, but--what did your Monsieur Dragot say my last name was?" "He didn't say." "Then I haven't any." "Oh, well, you needn't bother about that. Any time it gets lonesome you can hitch on Bronx--that is, I mean, only in case, you know." I could have bitten out my tongue for this! I don't know what fiends possessed me to be such an unmitigated ass! It was as unfair as poison--an insult to the only precepts I have ever genuinely felt proud of: the code of playing fair. Before I could pretend to have been making a silly joke she brushed away my contrition by asking: "Why Bronx? What does that mean?" Glory be! I had forgotten that she could not know my name! But now I had to deny myself, cast my birthright to the winds, or else let her see that I was a miserable cad who could not be trusted as protector to a girl thrown upon his care.