“Oh yes! I see her now.—What does your aunt call you, then?”
“Why, what you must call me—my own name, of course.”
“What is that?”
“Judy.”
She said it in a tone which seemed to indicate surprise that I should not know her name—perhaps read it off her face, as one ought to know a flower’s name by looking at it. But she added instantly, glancing up in my face most comically—
“I wish yours was Punch.”
“Why, Judy?”
“It would be such fun, you know.”
“Well, it would be odd, I must confess. What is your aunt’s name?”
“Oh, such a funny name!—much funnier than Judy: Ethelwyn. It sounds as if it ought to mean something, doesn’t it?”