There was a long pause, during which the couple regarded each other with staring eyes, that seemed turned inward in vehement self-examination. It appeared as if this name, the last on the list, carried with it a strange luggage of perplexity and confusion.
"Bush," the Emperor said at length—"James Bush. Well, Henrietta?"
"I don't know what to think of it," said the Empress. "I don't like it, Perry, I can't say I do. It's not a name I should have ever cared to marry, even when I was a foolish thing, before I took up with you and the pie-shop. No, it's not a name to marry."
The Emperor seemed greatly struck with these illuminative remarks. Yet he passed over the matrimonial demerits of Mr. Bush's name, and, with that power of coming straight to the point so characteristic of great minds, said:
"Is it a name to have in the home, Henrietta? That's the thing for us. Is it a name to have sleeping in our beds, eating off our linen, and listening to the instrument of an evening?"
The Empress wagged her head morosely in reply.
"Ah!" she said, "is it?"
"I have my doubts," the Emperor continued. "Shall we ask Mr. Harrison, my dear? We can always rely on him. He is a man that has seen the world, and can judge of a name at a first hearing."
"We might do worse," responded the Empress lachrymosely.
The Emperor pommelled the bell.