"Oh! yes, it will do. Better than Bunker, and not so good as Le Breton. As for my Christian name, now?"
"There I ventured on one small variation."
"Am I not, then, even Harry?"
"Yes, yes, yes, you are—now; formerly you were Harry without the H. It is the custom of the neighborhood in which you were born."
"I see! If I go back among my own people, I shall be, then, once more 'Arry?"
"Yes; and shout on penny steamers, and brandish pint bottles of stout, and sing along the streets, in simple abandonment to Arcadian joy; and trample on flowers; and break pretty things for wantonness; and exercise a rude but effective wit, known among the ancients as Fescennine, upon passing ladies; and get drunk o' nights; and walk the streets with a pipe in your mouth. That is what you would be, if you went back, my dear child."
Harry laughed.
"After all," he said, "this is a very difficult position. I can no longer go about pretending anything; I must tell people."
"Is that absolutely necessary?"
"Quite necessary. It will be a deuce of a business, explaining."