So Regina went on her way and she got married. I don’t say that it was a brilliant alliance—by no means. The man was young, younger than Regina. He was weak-looking and pretty, of a pink-and-white, wax-doll type, with shining fair hair and rather watery blue eyes. To his weakness Regina’s dominant nature strongly appealed; perhaps, also, in some measure the fact that she was the sole child of her father’s house, and that her father lived upon his means, and described himself as “gentleman” in the various papers connected with the politics of his country which from time to time reached him. Be that as it may, an engagement came about between Regina Brown and this young man, who was “something in the city” and who rejoiced in the name of Alfred Whittaker.
I must confess that it was somewhat of a shock to Regina when she found that among his fellows—young, vapid, rather raffish young men—he was known by the abbreviative of “Alf.”
“Dearest,” she said to him one day, after this unpalatable information had come to her, “I noticed that your friend, Mr. Fitzsimmons, called you ‘Alf’ last night.”
“Yes, the fellows mostly do,” he replied.
“But you were not called Alf at home, dearest,” said Regina.
She laid her substantial hand upon his arm and looked at him yearningly.
“My mother and my sisters always called me Alfie,” said he, returning the gaze with interest, for he admired Regina with an admiration which was wholly genuine.
“I really couldn’t call you Alfie,” she said.
“I don’t see why you couldn’t, Regina,” he replied. “It seems to me such an awful thing for people who love one another to be saying ‘Regina’ and ‘Alfred.’ There is something so chilly about it. Did your people never call you by a pet name?”
“Never,” said Regina.