A heated argument was in progress as to the names of their eight daughters. Easter had already chosen the names, and they ran as follows: Irene, Semolina, Rosalind, Majorca, Minorca, Vinolia, Larola, and Salonica. Chris objected to Semolina and Vinolia.
“I hate semolina,” he observed gloomily, “almost as bad as I hate rice.”
“But it sounds so much nicer.”
“And Vinolia, too—greasy stuff you smear on chapped legs.”
“It’s got a lovely smell,” said Easter.
“And why,” demanded Chris, who was in a bold and captious mood, “should there be eight of ’em? Why can’t there be some boys?”
“I won’t have boys, I tell you,” Easter declared firmly. “Girls are far prettier.”
“Are they?” asked Chris incredulously. “I’ve never seen any pretty ones.”
Instead of asking “Where are your eyes?” Easter said huffily, in life-like imitation of nurse: “That’s as it may be. Anyway they wear far prettier clothes.”
“You don’t,” Chris pointed out.