CHAPTER XXIX

IN WHICH NAOMI COMMUNICATES A TREMENDOUS PIECE OF NEWS, AND "PLACIDA" FIGHTS IT OUT WITH "LAVENDER" AND LOSES

Naomi was very quiet at breakfast and, I thought, very beautiful. She startled me, afterwards, as I stood at the window, watching the rain, by asking quietly, "Which would you like, Kent, dear, a girl or a boy?"

I had a moment's giddiness, but did not show it.

"I almost said 'Both,'" I replied.

"I shouldn't mind," she said. "But in case I disappoint you to that extent, which do you prefer?"

"I would like it to be what you want," I said. "But little girls are rather nice, and biggish girls are rather nice, and a daughter to walk about with when one is white-haired--but erect, of course--is something to look forward to. But you?"

"Oh yes," said Naomi, "I would like a girl."

"Then let it be a girl," I replied.

How differently things happen in novels and in life. Had I been a husband in a novel or a play I should have been thunderstruck that anything of this kind could possibly be happening; while my poor wife would have crimsoned and hid her face on my shoulder. As it was, we both laughed a little and I stroked her pretty head; and then she sat down to add up some accounts and I went to the Zoo. But underneath we were as conscious of the epoch-making moment as any of the husbands in the novels who, try as they may, cannot succeed in anticipating these somewhat trite events.

A few days later we began seriously to consider the question of names. I found on a bookstall a little pocket encyclopædia which gave two of its precious pages to columns and columns of girls' names in small print, in alphabetical order. Some of these names I will admit were outside the domain of practical politics. Jezebel, for example. No child of mine shall ever be called Jezebel, nor do I care much for Judith; although Judy I think pretty. But Naomi would have a boy rather than call her daughter Judy. Privately I may say that I believe that Naomi wants a boy; I believe that all women would like their babies to be sons. But she pretends that her wishes coincide with mine, and, after all, a girl is the next thing to a boy.

Beginning at the wrong end, our first duty was to examine the claims of Zoë, but that did not take long. No child of ours, we decided, should have a name that carried a diæresis with it. That is an axiom. Zoë therefore went.

"Zena?" I said.

"Certainly not," replied Naomi.

The only Y's were Yseult and Yvonne, but these were useless, as we intend never to live in Kensington. Winifred we also dismissed and Wilhelmina.

"How about Victoria?" I said.

But Naomi remained firm.

I dwelt fondly on Virginia. Miss Virginia Falconer sounds distinguished.

Naomi, however, was against it.

I like Veronica too, but not so well as Virginia. The other V's were negligible--Vashti and Vesta; but I affected to put in a plea for Volumnia.

"I could never nurse a Volumnia," said Naomi. "It is so immense. It also sounds like a steamer."

"Still," I said, "there ought to be a Volumnia Falconer, just to cheer up the birth announcements in the _Times_. Think of the double portions of samples that you would receive! To call a child Volumnia is as useful as having twins."

"I don't like it; but if you really want the samples you could call the child Volumnia in the _Times_ and then change the name. A _Times_ announcement is not binding," were Naomi's astonishing words: her first appearance as a profound strategist!

"If you talk like that," I said, "and the child takes after you, we had better call her Portia at once, or Christabel."

And so we explored the alphabet, rejecting name after name for the most curious reasons. This one because Naomi was at school with a girl named like that whom she did not like; that one because some public _bête noire_ had it; a third because it was too Jewish; another because it was too scriptural, and Naomi had herself suffered for that; a fifth because it would not go with Falconer; and many because they smacked of the stage.

In the end we found ourselves with two names about as different as they could be, over the merits of which we were obliged to fight. These were Placida and Lavender. Lavender was Naomi's choice; Placida was mine.

"Placida is charming," Naomi said, "but if names, as they say, have an influence on character, won't she be a little too quiet?"

"Can she be?" I replied.

"Well, it would be dreadful if it meant loss of spirit. Meekness is so unattractive."

"She'd inherit the earth," I said.

"Oh no," exclaimed Naomi, "don't let her do that! I would like Placida," Naomi went on, "if it could dominate her character only in her very early days."

"And nights," I added hastily.

"Yes, and nights. But after that? Should a name be so descriptive? Suppose she became a terrible romp?"

"I hope so," I said. "Then there will be piquancy of contrast added, and she will be the more likely to attract the millionaire whom all good fathers hope to descry on the horizon."

"Don't be foolish," said Naomi. "You will be furious when she falls in love, and unbearable when she is engaged."

"Very well, then," I said; "Lavender. But we can't call her Lavender. It's too artificial. Its special charm is that it's such a beautiful word. We can think of her as Lavender, but call her something else. What shall that be?"

"Nan," said Naomi, by an inspiration; and so it was settled.