He was worrying through a perfunctory consolation: "Oh, you just imagine that people are cold to you, Em. Everybody's tickled to death to have you home. You see, Em—"
"I wish you wouldn't call me Em," she said.
"It's your name, isn't it?"
"It's a part of my old name; but I've changed Emma to Amélie. After this I want to be called Amélie."
If she had announced her desire to wear trousers on the street, or to smoke a pipe in church, or even to go in for circus-riding, he could not have been more appalled than he was at what she said.
"Amélie?" he gasped. "What in the name of—of all that's sensible is that for?"
"I hate Em. It's ugly. It sounds like a letter of the alphabet. I like Amélie better. It's pretty and I choose it."
"But look here, Em—"
"Amélie."
"This is carrying things too blamed far."