Undoubtedly there are deities fully consecrated to the important business
of naming girls, so happily is that task accomplished. Gladys is a child
of the spirit of mischief. Josephine wears a sweet gravity, and Mary,
too, discourses of serious matters. Nora, in some incarnation, has seen
fairies scampering over moor and hill and the remembrance of them teases
her memory. Katherine is not so faithless as her ways might lead you to
believe. Laura without dark eyes would be impossible, and her predestined
Petrarch would never deliver his sonnets. Helen may be seen only against
a background of Trojan wall. Gertrude must be tall and fair and ready
with ballads in the winter twilight. Julia's reserve and discretion
commend her to you; but she has a heart of laughter. Anne is to be found
in the rose garden with clipping-shears and a basket. Hilda is a capable
person; there is no ignoring her militant character; the battles of Saxon
kings ring still in her blood. Marjorie has scribbled verses in secret,
and Celia is the quietest auditor at the symphony. And you may have
observed that there is no button on Elizabeth's foil; you do well not to
clash wits with her. Do you say that these ascriptions are not square
with your experience? Then verily there must have been a sad mixing
of infant candidates for the font in your parish. Shirley, in such case,
will mean nothing to you. It is a waste of time to tell you that the name
may become audible without being uttered; you can not be made to
understand that the _r_ and _l_ slip into each other as ripples glide
over pebbles in a brook. And from the name to the girl--may you be
forever denied a glimpse of Shirley Claiborne's pretty head, her brown
hair and dream-haunted eyes, if you do not first murmur the name with
honest liking.

As the Claibornes lingered at their table a short stout man espied them
from the door and advanced beamingly.