"I'm fifteen, David," she said severely. "I don't like you to say such
things to me. But," and she beamed a smile upon him that fairly
dazzled, "I do love the way you pronounce my name. No one says it just
as you do. I hate being called Christie. Don't you ever begin calling
me Christie. Do you hear?"
"I've always loved Christine," he said frankly. Then he felt himself
blush under the paint.
She hesitated, suddenly shy. "I've never liked David until now," she
said. "I've always liked Absalom better. Reginald is my favorite
name,--or Ethelbert. Still, as you say, I will doubtless outgrow them.
Besides, you are not David. You are poor little Jack Snipe."
Her warm smile faded as she turned her eyes in the direction of
Colonel Grand. The troubled look came back to them at once; there was
a subtle spreading of her dainty nostrils.
"How I hate his smile," she said in very low tones.
Without looking at David again she passed through the curtains after
Tom Sacks and made her way to the ring, a jaunty figure that gave no
sign of the uneasiness that lurked beneath the joyous spangles.
David looked after her for a moment.
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