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.

For one thing, a bump which muddles a man's common sense is very likely to muddle his memory.

And so, for the life of me, I can't seem to conjure up a desirable form of address from you to me except Philip.

And Philip," he added humbly, "isn't really such a bad sort of name after all." There was the whir and flash of a bird's wing in the forest the color of Diane's cheek.