My name's Roderick Spenser.

My father's Clayton Spenser, down at Brooksburg"-- he pointed to the southeast--"beyond that hill there, on the river.

I'm here on my vacation." And he halted, looking at her expectantly.
It seemed to her that there was in courtesy no escape without a return biographical sketch.

She hung her head, twisted her tapering fingers in her lap, and looked childishly embarrassed and unhappy.

Another long silence; again he broke it.