The decision was not arrived at all at once. The day wore on and the natural order of things had brought her and Christopher face to face at a moment when she had forgotten there was any difficulty about it. Cæsar had issued invitations to a family tea in his room in honour of Christopher’s achievement, as was a time-honoured custom when any of the members of the family distinguished themselves in work or play. Christopher served tea, as it was Cæsar’s party, and it was not until he gave Patricia her cup that he recollected she had not crossed his path since that morning in the rain.
“Where have you hidden yourself?” he demanded severely.
“You said I could not hold my tongue, so I determined I’d prove you false,” was her flippant rejoinder.
“At the cost of self-immolation. I think it proves my point.”
“I appeal to Cæsar.” She got up and took a chair close to the sofa.
“Cæsar, I wish you’d keep that boy of yours in order. He is always so convinced he is in the right that he is unbearable.”
“Allow him latitude to-day. He’ll meet opposition enough when he tries to foist this putty-clay of his on the world. By the way, what are you going to call it, Christopher?”
Everyone stopped talking and regarded the Discoverer 296 with critical anxiety. He looked slightly embarrassed and offered no suggestion, and it was Constantia who insisted airily that they should all propose names and he should choose from the offered selection.
Christopher was made to take a chair in the midst of the circle and to demonstrate in plain terms the actual substances of which the “Road-stuff,” as he inelegantly termed it, was made.
The younger members of the family called pathetically for some short, ready name that would not tax pen or tongue. After a long silence Nevil, modestly suggested “Hippopodharmataconitenbadistium.”