This raised a storm of protests, while Constantia’s own “Roadhesion” received hardly better support.
Cæsar flung out “Christite” without concern, and demanded Patricia’s contribution.
“Aymerite,” she ventured.
Christopher’s glances wandered from one to the other. She was seated on his own particular chair close to Cæsar, in whose company she felt a strange comfort and protection, a security against her own heart that could not yet be trusted to shield the secret of her love.
Mr. Aston was called on in his turn and he looked at Christopher with a smile.
“I think we are all wasting our time and wits,” he said placidly. “Christopher has his own name ready and your suggestions are superfluous.”
They clamoured for confirmation of this and Christopher had to admit it was true.
“I call it Patrimondi,” he said slowly, his eyes on Patricia, “because it will conquer the country and the world in time.”
Which explanation was accepted more readily by the younger members of the party than by the elder.
But “Patrimondi” it remained, and if he chose to perpetuate the claims of the future rather than the 297 past in this business of nomenclature, it was surely his own affair. Patricia, at all events, made no objection. She had recovered her equilibrium to find the relationship between them was so old that it called for nothing but mute acceptance on her part: the only thing that was new was her recognition of the barrier between them, whose imaginary shadow lay so cold across her heart.