"There now," said Philip suddenly, mindful of the hot, stinging
wound-wash, "that is the noise I heard last night just after you
stamped your foot and _before_ the doctor came."
"Nonsense!" said Diane briskly. "Your head's full of fanciful
notions. A bump like that on the back of your head is bound to tamper
some with your common sense." And humming lightly she scalded the
coffeepot and tin cups and set them in the sun to dry. Philip's glance
followed her, a winsome gypsy, brown and happy, to the green and white
van, whence she presently appeared with a field glass and a notebook.
"Of course," she began, halting suddenly with heightened color, "it
doesn't matter in the least--but it does facilitate conversation at
times to know the name of one's guest--no matter how accidental and
mysterious he may be."
"Philip!" he responded gravely but with laughing eyes. "It's really
very easy to remember." Diane stamped her foot.
"I _do_ think," she flashed indignantly, "that you are the most trying
young man I've ever met."
"I'm trying of course--" explained Philip, "trying to tell you my name.
I greatly regret," he went on deferentially, "that there are a number
of exceptional circumstances which have resulted in the brief and
simple--Philip.
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