Biggles?" she enquired.
"He hasn't been christened yet, but I think I'll call him Isaac Walton,
or Charles Cotton, or Piscator. Don't you think these are nice nimes?"
"No, I don't. Woollen and Cotton and what Mr. Perrowne belongs to are
not pretty. Eugene is pretty."
Mr. Bigglethorpe laughed, and said: "I didn't say Woollen but Walton,
and I said Piscator, which is the Latin for fisher, not Episcopalian,
which Mr. Perrowne is."
"Why do you want to call him a fisher? It is like a Sunday School story
Marjorie read me, a Yankee book, about a little baby boy that was left
on a doorstep, and the doorstep man's name was Fish, and he had him
baptized Preserved because he was preserved, and he grew up to be a good
man and was called Preserved Fish. Wasn't that awful?"
"Oh very streinge! If my boy had been a little girl, I would have nimed
her Marjorie."
"See, Mr. Biggles, here she comes again, and Cecile, and, O horrors!
Orther Lom."
It was too true. The young ladies had come out to enjoy the morning air,
and, after a turn in the garden, had rushed to the hill meadow to escape
the Departmental gentleman, whose elegant morocco slippers they had
heard on the stairs.
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