"Never heard of the gentleman." Bobby's tone expressed cheery indifference, as he bent over to prod the fire.
"But you met him, Bobby."
"It was in a crowd, then, and it doesn't signify that I've heard of him. Who is he, Sally?"
With the freedom born of intimacy, Sally was eating up her lemon rind, and there was a momentary pause, while she shook her head. Beatrix answered the question.
"He is Mr. Thayer's accompanist, that little German who was with him at Mrs. Stanley's."
"Have you heard Thayer yet, Sally?" Bobby asked parenthetically.
"No. I have heard about him till I am weary of his name, though, and such a name! Cotton Mather Thayer!"
"Did it ever occur to you the handicap of going through life as Bobby?" inquired the owner of that name. "It is a handicap; but it is also a distinct advantage. Nobody ever expects me to amount to anything. No matter how much I fizzle, they'll say 'Oh, but it's only Bobby Dane!' Now, Cotton Mather Thayer is bound to fill a niche in the—the—"
"Lofty cathedral of fame reared by the ages." Sally helped him out of his rhetorical abyss.
"Thanks awfully; yes. And then Beatrix will scatter her water-soaked breadcrumbs around him to coax the little sparrows to make their nests in the crown of his hat and get free music lessons for their young in exchange for keeping his head warm."