"You have named it?" he asked. "You have named—our child?"
Still she did not answer.
"It were not improper," he continued, smilingly, half-musingly, "for a father to venture a suggestion anent a name…. Eh bien, then. I should wish that the baby be known as" he stopped for a moment, thinking, the while lightly tapping booted leg with the tip of his crop. "I should suggest," he repeated, "calling her Rien. It is an appropriate name, Rien. It is not a bad name; in fact, it is rather a pretty name…. Rien…. Rien…. Rien…." He repeated it several times. "Yes, it seems to me that that is an excellent name…. We will, then, consider her name Rien." He laughed once more.
"Because of certain reasons," he went on, "I'm afraid that my paternal duties must cease with the naming of our child."
He turned to the dying woman upon the bed.
"Bon voyage, mam'selle—eh, pardon, madame," he said. He lifted his hat, bowing. To the old woman he turned.
"To you—" he began; she interrupted.
"Her eyes, they will be her mother's," she mumbled, sullenly.
"Which will be well," he smiled. "Her mother had beautiful eyes— wonderful eyes."
"More wonderful than you knew," muttered the old woman. "Had you come a day sooner—"