"I am sorry you were not with us," answered Theodora, "but we shall go again to the Mediterranean—for we only got glimpses of places and things, and must know them better. We shall go again, shall we not, Robert?"
Then Robert denied all his promises and said: "I fear not, for a long time. Business must be attended to."
"I am glad you are regaining your senses, Robert," said his mother. "Your business has been dreadfully neglected for more than half-a-year."
"It has taken no harm, mother, and I shall double my attention now."
"I hope you will—but I doubt it."
"Dora," said Christina, "may I call you Dora?"
"Dora, certainly," interrupted Mrs. Traquair Campbell. "Theodora is too long a name for conversation. Do you wish any more ice? Do you, Isabel?"
Theodora was confounded by such rude and positive ignoring. The question had been addressed to her, and referred to her Christian name—the most personal of all belongings. Yet it had been peremptorily decided for her without any regard to her right or wish. Her cheeks flushed hotly, and she looked at her husband. Surely he would spare her the distressing position of denying her mother-in-law's decision, or affirming her own. But Robert Campbell was as one that heard not. His eyes were upon his plate, and he was embarrassed even in the simple act of eating. At that moment she had almost a contempt for him. But seeing that he did not intend to interfere, she smiled at Christina, and said:
"You will call me Dora, I suppose, as you are bid to do so, and when I feel like it, I shall answer to that name. When I do not feel disposed to answer to Dora, I shall be silent. That is, you know, my privilege." She spoke with a smile and charming manner, and then, looking at her husband, rose from the table. Robert sauntered after her, making some remark about tea to his mother as he passed her.
She could not answer him. This leave-taking, unauthorized by her example, stupefied the elder woman. "Do you see, Isabel," she cried, "what I shall have to endure?"