She no longer wore the
picture-hat, and Rutherford, looking at her, came to the conclusion
that the change was an improvement.
'This'll do for me,' she said. 'Thought I'd just look in. I'm sorry
about Gladys. She isn't often like that. It's the hot weather.'
'It is hot,' said Rutherford.
'You've noticed it? Bully for you! Back to the bench for Sherlock
Holmes. Did Gladys try to shoot herself?'
'Good heavens, no! Why?'
'She did once. But I stole her gun, and I suppose she hasn't thought to
get another. She's a good girl really, only she gets like that
sometimes in the hot weather.' She looked round the room for a moment,
then gazed unwinkingly at Rutherford. 'What did you say your name was?'
she asked.
'Rutherford Maxwell.'
'Gee! That's going some, isn't it? Wants amputation, a name like that.
I call it mean to give a poor, defenceless kid a cuss-word like--what's
it? Rutherford? I got it--to go through the world with. Haven't you got
something shorter--Tom, or Charles or something?'
'I'm afraid not.'
The round, grey eyes fixed him again.
'I shall call you George,' she decided at last.
'Thanks, I wish you would,' said Rutherford.
'George it is, then. You can call me Peggy. Peggy Norton's my name.'
'Thanks, I will.'
'Say, you're English, aren't you?' she said.
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