Her manners are too Utopian for her to follow that up. She seems to reflect on procedure.
"What are your numbers?" she asks, abruptly.
A vision of that confounded visitors' book at the inn above comes into my mind. "Let me see," I say, and pat my forehead and reflect, refraining from the official eye before me. "Let me see."
"What is yours?" she asks the botanist.
"A. B.," he says, slowly, "little a, nine four seven, I think——"
"Don't you know?"
"Not exactly," says the botanist, very agreeably. "No."