“Seems to know you already, Varley,” said one. “Plays his new character first-rate, doesn’t he?”
Varley Howard’s pallid face did not move a muscle, not even when the child caught hold of the carefully trained mustache, which, in conjunction with the dark eyes and soft, languid voice and graceful figure of the gambler, had worked so much havoc in the female hearts of many a rough camp and civilized town.
“By the way,” said the lawyer, “the child hasn’t got a name that we know of. What are you going to call her, Varley?”
Before he could speak, a torrent of suggestions was showered upon him.
“Call her Polly!” shouted one.
“Polly be blowed!” said another. “That ain’t half good enough; call her Mary Anne!”
A string of names was shouted. Varley looked from one to the other; the child laughed at the noise.
“Give her a name yourself, Varley,” said Dan MacGrath, “and don’t let it be a slouch of a one. Three Star can afford to run to three syllables, at any rate. None of your Pollies or Sallies; it ain’t good enough! You can’t tell who she may be. P’r’aps she’s the daughter of an earl, like you read of in them blamed story-books.”
“Call her Esmeralda,” said the doctor. “I seem to remember some swell with that name.”