The “now” in aunt’s last sentence referred to the birth of my brother and me.
“If you do not so address her, before very long the boys themselves will be calling their mother Dot.”
“Certainly,” said father, “as you wish, sist—I—I mean aunt.”
“Well, and it is about the boys I have come to speak, if you will favour me with a moment’s attention.”
“Assuredly, sis—a—auntie dear.” And my father pulled himself together, as if he had been on parade. “Nothing wrong with the twins, I trust?”
“No, nothing wrong—as yet. But you know they must be baptised at an early date. Have you considered what names to give them?”
“Well, really—no—I—”
“Of course not. Men are—merely men. Luckily your wife and I have been considering for you. But have you any suggestion to make?”
“Ahem, well, a—my name has a John in it, and my brother’s is Jim. Short and sweet. Simple and all the rest of it. Eh? What?”
I have been told that Aunt Serapheema did not answer him for fully half a minute, but subjected him to what might be called a process of ocular transfixion. Compared to such a punishment, to be face to face with Russian bayonets would have been child’s play to poor father.