"No, no, it's to be Michael—I do hope Michael will like it."
* * * * * *
"How's Michael?" I asked a few days later when the father visited me.
"The baby is going on splendidly," he said.
"'The baby,'" I said. "Why not Michael?"
"Oh, something's got to be done. We can never leave the poor child with that name tied to him. We think of calling him Martin."
"Or Stephen," I said.
THE CULT OF THE KNIFE AND FORK
I was walking in the Chiltern Hills with a friend not long ago when we turned into the inn at Chenies for lunch. There were only two people in the dining-room—a man and, I take it, his wife, who were sitting at a table laden with a cold roast of beef, vegetables, pickles, cheese and bread, and large tankards of beer. The man was a hefty person with red hair, a red face, and a "fair round belly." He took no notice of our entrance, and he took no notice of the timid little woman in front of him. He gave his undivided attention to his knife and fork and the joint before him. He cut and came again with the steady gravity of a man who took his victuals seriously and had no time for frivolous talk. When at last the fury of his appetite abated, he took a last deep draught from the tankard, drew his napkin across his mouth, stretched himself, and, speaking for the first time to the timid little woman in front of him, said: