"Who is 'Billy?'" I inquired, casually.
I couldn't tell whether it was a sudden gleam of sunset light on her
face, or whether she blushed.
"Billy," she said softly, "is a friend of father's. His name is William
Green."
"Oh."
"He is coming out here to visit--father--I believe."
"Oh. An artist; and doubtless of mature years."
"He is a mineralogist by profession," she said, "--and somewhat young."
"Oh."
"Twenty-four years old," she added. Upon her pretty face was an absent
expression, vaguely pleasant. Her blue eyes became dreamy and exquisitely
remote.