“Well, dear, what shall we call him, then?” she asked, lowering her head over the baby to hide her hurt.
“Give him your own name if you want to. After all, he's your child. Elliston Byrd wouldn't sound at all bad.”
“Very well,” said Mary slowly. “I think the Dad would have been pleased by that.” In spite of herself, her voice trembled.
“Good Lord, Mary, I haven't hurt you, have I?” He looked exasperated.
She shook her head, still bending over the baby.
“It's all right, dear,” she whispered.
“You're so soft nowadays, one hardly dare speak,” he muttered. “Sorry, dear,” and with a penitent kiss for the back of her neck he hastened downstairs again.
The christening was held two weeks later, in the small Episcopalian church of Crab's Bay. Stefan could see no reason for it, as neither he nor Mary was orthodox, but when he suggested omitting the ceremony she looked at him wide-eyed.
“Not christen him, Stefan? Oh, I don't think that would be fair,” she said. Her manner was simple, but there was finality in her tone—it made him feel that wherever her child was concerned she would be adamant.
The baby's godmother was, of course, Constance, and his godfathers, equally obviously, Farraday and McEwan. Mary made the ceremony the occasion of a small at-home, inviting the numerous friends from whom she had received congratulations or gifts for the baby.