"Her name is Sherry," remarked George.
"Oh, George, you silly," exclaimed Eva. "You mean Chérie."
"How do you know her name?" snapped Mrs. Whitaker, laying down her knitting in her lap and fixing stern inquisitorial eyes upon her son.
"She told me," said George, with a nonchalant air.
"She told you!" said his mother. "I never knew you had any conversation with those women."
"It wasn't conversation," said George. "I met her in the garden and I stopped her and said, 'What is your name?' and she answered, 'Sherry.' That's all."
"Queer name," said his father.
"My dear Anselm, that is really not the point—" began Mrs. Whitaker, but the dressing-gong sounded and they all promptly dispersed to their rooms, so Anselm never knew what the point really was.
After dinner Eva, as usual, went to the piano, opened it and lit the candles, while her father sat in the dining-room with the folding-doors thrown wide open, as he declared he could not enjoy his port or his pipe without Eva's music.
"What shall it be tonight, Paterkins?" Eva called out in her birdlike voice. "Rachmaninoff?"