“What’s your name?” Jeanne demanded.
The boy murmured something that sounded like “Tomorrow.”
“No!” Jeanne spoke more distinctly. “I said, what’s your name?”
The boy too spoke more distinctly. Still the thing he said was to Jeanne simply “Tomorrow.”
“I don’t know,” she exclaimed almost angrily, “whether it is today still, or whether we have got into tomorrow. My watch is in my room. What I’d like to know is, what do your parents call you?”
“Tomorrow,” the boy repeated, or so it sounded to Jeanne.
Then he laughed a merry laugh. “I’ll spell it for you. T-U-M, Tum. That’s my first name. And the second is Morrow. I defy you to say it fast without making it ‘tomorrow’!
“And that,” he sighed, “is a very good name for me! It is always tomorrow that good things are to happen. Then they never do.”
“Tum Morrow,” said Jeanne, “tomorrow at three will you have tea with me?”
“I surely will tomorrow,” said Tum Morrow, “but where do I come?”