"What's in a name?" said Truxton, and swung his baby high in the air. "Do you love your daddy, Fiddle-dee-dee?"
"'Ess," said Fiddle, having accepted him at once on the strength of sweet chocolate, and an adorable doll.
"What are they saying?" whispered Aunt Claudia, still tense in the middle of the room.
"Hush," Becky waved a warning hand.
"There is," said the Judge, in a declamatory manner, "everything in a name. The Bannisters of Huntersfield, the Paines of King's Crest, the Randolphs of Cloverdale, do you think these things don't count, Truxton?"
"I think there's a lot of rot in it," said young Beaufort, "when we were fighting for democracy over there——"
The shot told. "Democracy has nothing to do with it——"
"Democracy," said Truxton, "has a great deal to do with it. The days of kings and queens are dead, they have married each other for generations and have produced offspring like—William of Germany. Class assumptions of superiority are withered branches on the tree of civilization. Mary is as good as I am any day."
"You wrote things like this," said the Judge, interested in spite of himself, and loving argument.