“Tell him,” she said, “that he’s the father of a son.”
Simeon Whey’s housekeeper gave a great cry. I was beside her in a single leap. Always highly coloured, I have since been assured that my face seemed literally on fire. The two fellow-members of the St. Potamus Purity League, accompanied by Charity and Understanding, rushed into the hall. The nurse leaned over the banisters.
“A boy,” she said. “It’s a boy.”
“A boy?” I said.
“Yes, a boy,” said the nurse.
There was a moment’s hush, and then Nature had its way. Unashamedly I burst into tears. Simeon Whey’s housekeeper kissed me on the neck just as the two fellow-members burst into a hymn; and a moment later, Charity and Understanding burst simultaneously into the doxology. Then I recovered myself and held up my hand.
“I shall call him Augustus,” I said, “after myself.”
“Or tin?” suggested Simeon Whey’s housekeeper. “What about calling him tin, after the saint?”
“How do you mean tin?” I said.
“Augus-tin,” said Charity.