Mrs. Rooney. What good is it but to clutter up the closet, knocking about in my way.
Mrs. Lezinsky. My David and Julius and Benny, they never had such a basket, but my cousin, Morris Schapiro's wife,—she had such a basket—for her baby. All lined with pink it was.
Mrs. Rooney. Pink is for boys. I wanted a girl, having Mickey then.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Me, too, Mrs. Rooney. Three boys! Now it's time it should be a little girl. Yes, Mrs. Rooney. A little girl like Eileen.
Mrs. Rooney. Sure, then, if you're going by the basket 'tis a little girl you have coming to you. Blue's for girls.... A comb and a brush for it—you can buy.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Combs and brushes! What should I do with combs and brushes? My David and Julius and Benny are all born bald.
Mrs. Rooney. Sure, Eileen had the finest head of curls was ever seen on a baby—little soft yellow curls—like the down on a bird.
Mrs. Lezinsky. If I should have a little girl—like your Eileen—my David and Julius and Benny—they die for joy over their little sister, I tell you, Mrs. Rooney. Yes, it should be a girl and I name her Eileen. Such pretty names for girls: Eileen and Hazel and Gladys and Goldie. Goldie's a pretty name, too. I like that name so much I call myself Goldie when I go to school. Gietel's my Jewish name. Ugly? Yes, Mrs. Rooney? Goldie's better—much better. But Eileen's the best of all. Eileen's a gorgeous name. I name her Eileen, I do assure you. She should have another name, too, for Solly. Zipporah, maybe—for her dead grandmother.
Mrs. Rooney. Sure, Eileen has a second name: Bridget. 'Tis for my mother in the old country. A saint's name. Her father chose it for her. Bridget's a grand name—that—too.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Zipporah—that was Solly's mother.... But I call her Eileen.