"No. I don't believe I have a name. Yet I suppose I ought to have a name, everybody does have a name; doesn't everybody have a name?"
She put this question with a little air of hesitation, as if she propounded a doubtful proposition.
"I should say so, as a general rule. It is rather an uncomfortable position for a young lady to be in—not to know her own name, nor the whereabouts of her home, nor who her friends are.
"Do you think so? Does it make me seem—silly?" She looked at me with a wistful expression, like a puzzled child. "I seem to remember people shouting; they were shouting at me. And clapping their hands—I can see them clapping their hands; then something happened."
"Where were the people—and why did they shout at you?"
"I can't think. I believe it's in my head somewhere, if I only knew where to find it; but I don't know where it is."
"Can't you remember what happened to you, and where you were just before you came to my room?"
"I remember coming through your window; I remember that quite well." A faint flush came to her cheeks. "But that is all. Everything seems
