"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.