He grinned and fished around on a shelf for a dishcloth. Having found
it he stationed himself beside her and took the dishes one by one as
she finished with them.

"Your name is Markham, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes--how did you know?" he asked in surprise.

She indicated a packing case in the corner which was addressed in
letters six inches high.

"Oh," he said. "Of course."

"You're _the_ Mr. Markham, aren't you?"

"I'm not sure about that. I'm _this_ Mr. Markham."

"Markham, the portrait painter?"

"That's what I profess. Why?"

"Oh, nothing."

He examined her, puzzling again, wiping the cup in his fingers with
great particularity.

"_Are_ you an anarchist?" she asked in a moment.

He laughed.