“White?” I repeated. I think I pictured it with an “i,” not a “y.” “White: what a common name!”
Mamma smiled. I think my pert speech seemed to her rather clever; but papa turned upon me almost sharply.
“Nonsense, child!” he said; “where do you get such ridiculous notions from?”
“Our name is so pretty,” I replied, “and not at all common. It is a very old name, everybody says.”
Our name is Percy; papa is Dr Percy. I don’t think “Dr” suits it as well as “Major,” or “Colonel,” or “Sir.” “Sir something Percy,” not “Thomas,” which is papa’s name, but some grander name, like “Harold” or “Bevis,” would sound lovely before “Percy.”
Papa looked at me, and he, too, smiled a little.
“It is a pretty name if you like, my dear,” he said, “and I am glad it pleases you. But as for our family being ‘old’ in the usual sense, don’t get any fancies into your head. My father was an honest yeoman, and his father was only a head-man on a farm, though thrifty and hardworking, and, best of all, God-fearing. So that, bit by bit, he came to own land himself, and my father, following in his steps, was able to give me a first-rate education.”
I had heard this before, or some of it, but it rather suited me to ignore it. I gave my head a little toss.
“I don’t see that that has anything to do with ‘White’ being a common name,” I said.