She found the biscuits and sat down again.

“A girl’s name,” I said encouragingly.

“Yes.  Well, is she fair or dark?”

“She’s very small at present.  What there is of her is dark, I believe.”

“Well, there are millions of names for dark girls.”

“We only want one or two.”

“‘Barbara’ is a nice dark name.  Is she going to be pretty?”

“Her mother says she is.  I didn’t recognize the symptoms.  Very pretty and very clever and very high-spirited, her mother says.  Is there a name for that?”

“I always call them whoppers,” said Miss Middleton.

“How do you like ‘Alison Mary’?  That was my first idea.”

“Oh, I thought it was always ‘William and Mary.’  Or else ’Victoria and Albert.’”

“I didn’t say ‘Alice and Mary,’ stoopid.  I said ‘Alison,’ a Scotch name.”

“But how perfectly sweet!  Why weren’t you my godfather?  Would you have given me a napkin ring?”

“Probably.  I will now, if you like.  Then you approve of ’Alison Mary’?”

“I love it.  Thank you very much.  And will you always call me ‘Alison’ in future?”

“I say,” I began in alarm, “I’m not giving that name to you.  It’s for my godchild.”

“Oh no!  ‘Alisons’ are always fair.”

“You’ve just made that up,” I said suspiciously.  “How do you know?”

“Sort of instinct.”

“The worst of it is, I believe you’re right.”

“Of course I am.  That settles it.  Now, what was your next idea?”

“‘Angela.’”

“‘Angelas,’” said Miss Middleton, “are always fair.”

“Why do you want all the names to yourself?  You say everything’s fair.”

“Why can you only think of names beginning with ‘A’?  Try another letter.”

“Suppose you try now.”

Miss Middleton wrinkled her brow and nibbled a lump of sugar.

“‘Dorothy,’” she said at last, “because you can call them ‘Dolly.’”

“There is only one.”

“Or ‘Dodo.’”

“And it isn’t a bird.”

“Then there’s ‘Violet.’”

“My good girl, you don’t understand.  Any of these common names the parents could have thought of for themselves.  The fact that they have got me in at great expense—­to myself—­shows that they want something out of the ordinary.  How can I go to them and say, ’After giving a vast amount of time to the question, I have decided to call your child ‘Violet’?  It can’t be done.”

Miss Middleton absently took another lump of sugar and, catching my eye, put it back again.

“I don’t believe that you’ve ever been a godfather before,” she said, “or that you know anything at all about what it is you’re supposed to be going to do.”

There was a knock at the door, and the liftman came in.  Miss Middleton gave a little cough of recognition.

“A letter, sir,” he said.