“It isn't a question of how it sounds, Mr. Percival.”
“Don't you like Doraine Clinton?”
“I like almost anything better than Ruth. I suppose most people loathe the names that other people have given them.”
“No one knows that better than I. I sometimes wonder what they might have called me if I were a girl. Nothing as nice as Doraine, or Ruth, I'll bet my soul on that. Something like Guinevere Aphrodite, or Desdemona Venus, or—”
“We are getting away from the subject,” she interrupted crisply. “Has it occurred to you that poor little Mrs. Cruise might like to name her own baby? Why should you men take it upon yourselves to choose a name for her child? Don't you think you were a trifle high-handed in the matter?”
“Of course, if Mrs. Cruise doesn't like Doraine, we will—”
“You will suggest another, I suppose,” she broke in scornfully. “Well, I may as well inform you that you are about to strike a snag,” she went on, a trifle inelegantly in her desire to be emphatic. “We intend to see to it that the mother of that baby gives it a name of her own choosing.”
“May I inquire just who you mean by we?” he asked.
“The women,—three hundred of us, Mr. Percival, that's who. I for one happen to know that Betty Cruise chose a name long ago. Her heart is set on naming the baby after her mother,—Judith, I think it is. That's the name she wants, but do you imagine she will have the hardihood or the courage, poor little scrap, to oppose you, Mr. Percival? I mean you, personally. She thinks your word is law. She would no more think of defying you than she would think of—”
“Pardon me, Miss Clinton,” he interrupted gently, “but don't you think that's a trifle far-fetched? I am not a dictator, you know. I fancy Mrs. Cruise knows that, even if you do not.”