"So that's all right," she said breathlessly. "And I want my tea."
She came in, and began to arrange her hat in front of the glass.
"Tea," I said, going to the cupboard. "I suppose you'll want a cup
to yourself. There you are--don't lose it. Milk. Sugar."
Miss Middleton took a large piece of cake. "What were you studying
so earnestly when I came in?" she asked as she munched.
"A dictionary."
"But how lucky I came. Because I can spell simply everything. What
is it you want to know?"
"I don't want to know how to spell anything, thank you; but I
believe you can help me all the same."
Miss Middleton sat down and drank her tea. "I love helping," she
said.
"Well, it's this. I've just been asked to be a godfather."
Miss Middleton stood up suddenly. "Do I salute," she asked.
"You sit down and go on eating. The difficulty is--what to call it?"
"Oh, do godfathers provide the names?"
"I think so. It is what they are there for, I fancy. That is about
all there is in it, I believe."
"And can't you find anything in the dictionary?"
"Well, I don't think the dictionary is helping as much as I
expected. It only muddles me. Did you know that Algernon meant 'with
whiskers'? I'm not thinking of calling it Algernon, but that's the
sort of thing they spring on you."
"But I hate Algernon anyhow. Why not choose quite a simple name? Had
you thought of 'John,' for instance?"
"No, I hadn't thought of 'John,' somehow."
"Or 'Gerald'?"
"'Gerald' I like very much."
"What about 'Dick'?" she went on eagerly.
"Yes, 'Dick' is quite jolly. By the way, did I tell you it was a
girl?"
Miss Middleton rose with dignity.
"For your slice of plum cake and your small cup of tea I thank you,"
she said; "and I am now going straight home to mother."
"Not yet," I pleaded.
"I'll just ask you one question before I go. Where do you keep the
biscuits?"
She found the biscuits and sat down again.
"A girl's name," I said encouragingly.
"Yes. Well, is she fair or dark?"
"She's very small at present. What there is of her is dark, I
believe."
"Well, there are millions of names for dark girls."
"We only want one or two."
"'Barbara' is a nice dark name. Is she going to be pretty?"
"Her mother says she is. I didn't recognize the symptoms. Very
pretty and very clever and very high-spirited, her mother says. Is
there a name for that?"
"_I_ always call them whoppers," said Miss Middleton.
"How do you like 'Alison Mary'? That was my first idea."
"Oh, I thought it was always 'William and Mary.' Or else 'Victoria
and Albert.'"
"I didn't say 'Alice AND Mary,' stoopid. I said 'Alison,' a Scotch
name."
"But how perfectly sweet! Why weren't you MY godfather? Would you
have given me a napkin ring?"
"Probably. I will now, if you like. Then you approve of 'Alison
Mary'?"
"I love it. Thank you very much. And will you always call me
'Alison' in future?"
"I say," I began in alarm, "I'm not giving that name to you. It's
for my godchild."
"Oh no! 'Alisons' are ALWAYS fair."
"You've just made that up," I said suspiciously. "How do you know?"
"Sort of instinct."
"The worst of it is, I believe you're right."
"Of course I am. That settles it. Now, what was your next idea?"
"'Angela.'"
"'Angelas,'" said Miss Middleton, "are ALWAYS fair."
"Why do you want all the names to yourself? You say everything's
fair."
"Why can you only think of names beginning with 'A'? Try another
letter."
"Suppose YOU try now."
Miss Middleton wrinkled her brow and nibbled a lump of sugar.
"'Dorothy,'" she said at last, "because you can call them 'Dolly.'"
"There IS only one."
"Or 'Dodo.'"
"And it isn't a bird."
"Then there's 'Violet.'"
"My good girl, you don't understand. Any of these common names the
parents could have thought of for themselves. The fact that they
have got me in at great expense--to myself--shows that they want
something out of the ordinary. How can I go to them and say, 'After
giving a vast amount of time to the question, I have decided to call
your child 'Violet'? It can't be done."
Miss Middleton absently took another lump of sugar and, catching my
eye, put it back again.
"I don't believe that you've ever been a godfather before," she
said, "or that you know anything at all about what it is you're
supposed to be going to do."
There was a knock at the door, and the liftman came in. Miss
Middleton gave a little cough of recognition.
"A letter, sir," he said.
"Thanks.... And as I was saying, Aunt Alison," I went on in a loud
voice, "you are talking rubbish."
. . . . . . .
"Bah!" I said angrily, and I threw the letter down.
"Would you like to be left alone?" suggested Miss Middleton kindly.
"It is from the child's so-called parents, and their wretched
offspring is to be called 'Violet Daisy.'"
"'Violet Daisy,'" said Miss Middleton solemnly, trying not to smile.
"Why stop there?" I said bitterly. "Why not 'Geranium' and
'Artichoke,' and the whole blessed garden?"
"'Artichoke,'" said Miss Middleton gravely, "is a boy's name."
"Well, I wash my hands of the whole business now. No napkin ring
from ME. Here have I been wasting hours and hours in thought, and
then just when the worst of it is over, they calmly step in like
this. I call it--"
"Yes?" said Miss Middleton eagerly.
"I call it simply--"
"Yes?"
"'Violet Daisy,'" I finished, with a great effort.