She did not answer. He bent over the prostrate form; then again stood
erect. He shrugged his shoulders.

He turned again to the shrivelled woman on the chair.

"You have named it?" he asked. "You have named--our child?"

Still she did not answer.

"It were not improper," he continued, smilingly, half-musingly, "for a
father to venture a suggestion anent a name.... _Eh bien_, then. I
should wish that the baby be known as" he stopped for a moment, thinking,
the while lightly tapping booted leg with the tip of his crop. "I should
suggest," he repeated, "calling her Rien. It is an appropriate name,
Rien. It is not a bad name; in fact, it is rather a pretty name....
Rien.... Rien.... Rien...." He repeated it several times. "Yes, it seems
to me that that is an excellent name.... We will, then, consider her name
Rien." He laughed once more.

"Because of certain reasons," he went on, "I'm afraid that my paternal
duties must cease with the naming of our child."

He turned to the dying woman upon the bed.

"Bon voyage, mam'selle--eh, pardon, madame," he said. He lifted his hat,
bowing. To the old woman he turned.

"To you--" he began; she interrupted.

"Her eyes, they will be her mother's," she mumbled, sullenly.