"I think," said Dahlia, "we'll call him Peter."
IV.—HE IS CHRISTENED
On the morning of the christening, as I was on my way to the bathroom, I met Simpson coming out of it. There are people who have never seen Simpson in his dressing-gown; people also who have never waited for the sun to rise in glory above the snow-capped peaks of the Alps; who have never stood on Waterloo Bridge and watched St. Paul's come through the mist of an October morning. Well, well, one cannot see everything.
"Hallo, old chap!" he said. "I was just coming to talk to you. I want your advice."
"A glass of hot water the last thing at night," I said, "no sugar or milk, a Turkish bath once a week and plenty of exercise. You'll get it down in no time."
"Don't be an ass. I mean about the christening. I've been to a wedding, of course, but that isn't quite the same thing."
"A moment, while I turn on the tap." I turned it on and came back to him. "Now then, I'm at your service."
"Well, what's the—er—usual costume for a christening?"
"Leave that to the mother," I said. "She'll see that the baby's dressed properly."