At any rate, they were going to see to it that the baby was not named by a mob!
Ruth Clinton went straight to Percival.
“I hear you have named the baby, Mr. Percival,” she said, prefacing her remark by a curt “good morning.”
It was the first time she had spoken to him in many days. Their ways not only lay apart but she had made a point of avoiding him. She stopped him this morning as he was passing the hut in which she and her aunt were to live with two of the American nurses.
The three young women had spent several days in the making and putting up of some very unusual and attractive window curtains and portieres; painting the stones that framed the fireplace, the crude window-casings and door jamb; and in draping certain corner recesses which were to achieve dignity as clothes closets. They were scrubbing the floor when Percival passed on his way to the “office.”
His “office,” by the way, was a rude “lean-to” at the extreme outer end of the street. It was characteristic of him to establish headquarters at a point farthest removed from the approach to the camp from the ship. Fitts was perhaps the only person who sensed the real motive back of this selection. Every one else attributed it to an amiable conclusion on Percival's part to sacrifice himself for others by walking almost twice as far as any of them. As a matter of fact, he had nothing of the sort in mind. He deliberately arranged it so that all operations should be carried on between headquarters and “home.” It was his plan to drive inward instead of outward, to push always in one direction. In other words, thought Fitts quite correctly, he “never had to look behind him for trouble.”
To save his life, Percival could not subdue the eager, devouring gleam that flashed into his eyes as he looked into hers. He could have cursed himself. A swift warm flush raced from her throat to her cheeks. Her direct, steady gaze faltered under fire, and a confused, trapped expression flickered perceptibly for a moment or two. He mistook it for dismay, or, on second thought, even worse,—displeasure.
“I—I can't help it,” he stammered, surprised into voicing the thought that was uppermost. “You know how I feel. I—I—”
But she had recovered her self-possession. “Do you really think you have the right to name Mrs. Cruise's baby?” she inquired coolly.
He managed a wry, deprecatory smile. “Everybody seems to like the name, Miss Clinton. The more I think of it myself, the better it sounds. I tried it out last night in all sorts of combinations. It fits nicely into almost any family tree—even Nicklestick's. Just say it to yourself. Doraine Nicklestick. Try any name you like. Doraine Smith, Doraine Humperdinck, Doraine Landover—even Doraine Shay—and, I tried it out with Clinton. Doraine Clinton. Don't you like it? I even tried Percival. It isn't quite so satisfying tacked onto a name like mine,—and it's a poor beginning for Fitts,—but with good, sensible surnames, it's fine.”