“Congratulate you, I'm sure,” said Newmark rather shortly. “Mrs. Orde is doing well, I hope?”
“Fine, fine!” cried Orde.
Newmark dropped the subject and plunged into a business matter. Orde's attention, however, was flighty. After a little while he closed his desk with another bang.
“No use!” said he. “Got to make it a vacation. I'm going to run over to see how the family is.”
Strangely enough, the young couple had not discussed before the question of a name. One evening at twilight, when Orde was perched at the foot of the bed, Carroll brought up the subject.
“He ought to be named for you,” she began timidly. “I know that, Jack, and I'd love to have another Jack Orde in the family; but, dear, I've been thinking about father. He's a poor, forlorn old man, who doesn't get much out of life. And it would please him so—oh, more than you can imagine such a thing could please anybody!”
She looked up at him doubtfully. Orde said nothing, but walked around the bed to where the baby lay in his little cradle. He leaned over and took the infant up in his gingerly awkward fashion.
“How are you to-day, Bobby Orde?” he inquired of the blinking mite.