“You named it. What was that name? I can’t call it to mind.”
It appeared to me that the ice was getting pretty thin, here. I would have given something to know what the child’s was. However, I had the good luck to think of a name that would fit either sex—so I brought it out:
“I named it Frances.”
“From a relative, I suppose? But you named the one that died, too—one that I never saw. What did you call that one?”
I was out of neutral names, but as the child was dead and she had never seen it, I thought I might risk a name for it and trust to luck. Therefore I said:
“I called that one Thomas Henry.”
She said, musingly:
“That is very singular ... very singular.”
I sat still and let the cold sweat run down. I was in a good deal of trouble, but I believed I could worry through if she wouldn’t ask me to name any more children. I wondered where the lightning was going to strike next. She was still ruminating over that last child’s title, but presently she said:
“I have always been sorry you were away at the time—I would have had you name my child.”