“He might have a godfather just—pour rire,” said Oswald.
“That’s different,” Dolly encouraged promptly. “We must get him one.”
“I’d like to be Peter’s godfather,” said Oswald.
“I will deny him no advantage,” said Arthur. “The ceremony—— The ceremony shall be a simple one. Godfather, Peter; Peter, godfather. Peter, my son, salute your godfather.”
Oswald seemed trying to remember a formula. “I promise and vow three things in his name; first a beautiful mug; secondly that he shall be duly instructed in chemistry, biology, mathematics, the French and German tongues and all that sort of thing; and thirdly, that—what is thirdly? That he shall renounce the devil and all his works. But there isn’t a devil nowadays.”
Peter having consumed his bottle to the dregs and dreamt over it for a space, now thrust it from him and turning towards Oswald, regurgitated—but within the limits of nursery good manners. Then he smiled a toothless, slightly derisive smile.
“Intelligent ’e is!” crooned Dolly. “Unstand evlyfling ’e does....”
§ 3
This conversation about Peter’s future, once it had been started, rambled on for the next three weeks, and then Oswald very abruptly saw fit to be called away to Africa again....
Various interlocutors dropped in while that talk was in progress. Arthur felt his way to his real opinions through a series of experimental dogmas.