“Don’t you? My, that’s funny! I don’t know yours!”
“Now you quit kidding me! What’s the nice little name?”
“Oh, it ain’t so darn nice. I guess it’s kind of kike. But my folks ain’t kikes. My papa’s papa was a nobleman in Poland, and there was a gentleman in here one day, he was kind of a count or something—”
“Kind of a no-account, I guess you mean!”
“Who’s telling this, smarty? And he said he knew my papa’s papa’s folks in Poland and they had a dandy big house. Right on a lake!” Doubtfully, “Maybe you don’t believe it?”
“Sure. No. Really. Sure I do. Why not? Don’t think I’m kidding you, honey, but every time I’ve noticed you I’ve said to myself, ‘That kid has Blue Blood in her veins!’”
“Did you, honest?”
“Honest I did. Well, well, come on—now we’re friends—what’s the darling little name?”
“Ida Putiak. It ain’t so much-a-much of a name. I always say to Ma, I say, ‘Ma, why didn’t you name me Dolores, or something with some class to it?’”
“Well, now, I think it’s a scrumptious name. Ida!”