“So you’ve found your tongue at last,” said Lady Charlotte. “That’s only your nickname. What’s your proper name?”
“Can we go out in the garden now, Auntie?” said Peter; “and play at By-blows?”
“Garden now,” said Joan.
“He’s Brighter than you seem to think,” said Aunt Phœbe with gentle sarcasm.
“Commina Garden,” said Joan, tugging at Peter’s pinafore.
“But I must ask him his name first,” said Lady Charlotte, “and,” with growing firmness, “he must tell it me. Come! What is your name, my dear?”
“Peter,” prompted Mary.
“Peter,” said Peter, satisfied that it was a silly game and anxious to get it over and away from this horror as soon as possible.
“And who gave you that name?”
“Nobody; it’s mine,” said Peter.