"Yes; I was 1907."
"_You!_"
He looked down at his white overalls, smiling.
"Does that astonish you, Miss Carr?--you are Miss Carr, I suppose----"
"Sybilla--yes--we're--we're triplets," she stammered.
"The beauti--the--the Carr triplets! And you are one of them?" he
exclaimed, delighted.
"Yes." Still bewildered, she sat there, looking at him. How
extraordinary! How strange to find a Harvard man pasting paper! Dire
misgivings flashed up within her.
"Who are you?" she asked tremulously. "Would you mind telling me your
name. It--it isn't--_George!_"
He looked up in pleased surprise:
"So you know who I am?"
"N-no. But--it isn't George--is it?"
"Why, yes----"
"O-h!" she breathed. A sense of swimming faintness enveloped her: she
swayed; but an unmistakable ripping noise brought her suddenly to
herself.
"I am afraid you are tearing your skirt somehow," he said anxiously. "Let
me----"
"No!"
The desperation of the negative approached violence, and he involuntarily
stepped back.
For a moment they faced one another; the flush died out on her cheeks.
"If," she said, "your name actually is George, this--this is the most--
the most terrible punishment--" She closed her eyes with her fingers as
though to shut out some monstrous vision.
"What," asked the amazed young man, "has my name to do with----"
Her hands dropped from her eyes; with horror she surveyed him, his paste-
spattered overalls, his dingy white cap, his dinner pail.
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