‘Barbara,’ said Eve, with great emphasis, ‘nothing in the world would induce me to submit to be called Mrs. Squash.’
‘My dear, if the name is the only objection, I think he will not mind changing it. Indeed, it is only proper that he should. As he and you will have Morwell, it is of course right that a Jordan should be here, and—to please the Duke and you—he will, I feel sure, gladly assume our name. I agree with you that, though Coyshe is not a bad name, it is not a pretty one. It lends itself to corruption.’
‘Babb is worse,’ said Eve, still sulky.
‘Yes, darling, Babb is ugly, and it is the pet name you give me, as short for Barbara. I have often told you that I do not like it.’
‘You never said a word against it till Jasper came.’
‘Well, dear, I may not have done so. When he did settle here, and we knew his name, it was not, of course, seemly to call me by it. That is to say,’ said Barbara, colouring, ‘it led to confusion—in calling for me, for instance, he might have thought you were addressing him.’
‘Not at all,’ said Eve, still filled with a perverse spirit. ‘I never called him Babb at all, I always called him Jasper.’ Then she took up her little apron and pulled at the embroidered ends, and twisted and tortured them into horns. ‘It would be queer, sister, if you were to marry Jasper, you would become double Babb.’
‘Don’t,’ exclaimed Barbara, bridling; ‘this is unworthy of you, Eve; you are trying to turn your arms against me, when I am attacking you.’
‘May I not defend myself?’
Then Barbara drew her arm tighter round her sister, kissed her pretty neck under the delicate shell-like ear, and said, ‘Sweetest! we never fight. I never would raise a hand against you. I would run a pair of scissors into my own heart rather than snip a corner off this dear little ear. There, no more fencing even with wadded foils. We were talking of Mr. Coyshe.’