"There is no more sugar for your coffee, Mr. Warrington," said Edith
Chase, as she poured out Hugh's second cup.
"Smile on it, please," said Hugh, gayly.
"Now, Miss Chase, if you neglect my cup any longer," said Walter Hart,
"I shall grow desperate; I shall be obliged to give you—"
"Fitz," interrupted Hugh.
"Bad puns are excluded from this picnic," said Rose Saxon; "and, by the way, Mr. Warrington, why do you drop the first syllable of your name?"
"Because it is never pronounced rightly," said Hugh; "it is either called 'Fitz-He-yew,' or 'Fitchew.'"
"Pronunciation is a matter of taste," said Mr. Leslie, laughing. "A lady once asked me if I did not think Walter Scott's Rock-a-by was a 'sweet thing.' At first I supposed she was alluding to some cradle-song with which I was not familiar, and it was sometime before I discovered that she meant Rokeby."
"I have often been puzzled myself with the names of books," said Aunt
Faith. "Years ago there was a book published called Ivar or the
Skujts-boy? I liked it but I never dared to venture on the name."
"And since then," said Mr. Gay, "the names of the heroes and heroines in magazine-stories are really astonishing. The favorite letter, now is 'Y.' They have 'y's' in the most unexpected places. Such names as 'Vivian' and 'Willis,' for instance. They spell them 'Vyvyan' and 'Wyllys'"
The meal over, the company dispersed through the woods. Graham Marr took a book from his pocket. "Miss Warrington," he said, in his slow way, "I have brought out a new poem; if you care to hear it, there is a mossy rock which will make an admirable sofa."