y. He looked slightly embarrassed and offered no suggestion, and
it was Constantia who insisted airily that they should all propose
names and he should choose from the offered selection.

Christopher was made to take a chair in the midst of the circle and to
demonstrate in plain terms the actual substances of which the
"Road-stuff," as he inelegantly termed it, was made.

The younger members of the family called pathetically for some short,
ready name that would not tax pen or tongue. After a long silence
Nevil, modestly suggested "Hippopodharmataconitenbadistium."

This raised a storm of protests, while Constantia's own "Roadhesion"
received hardly better support.

Caesar flung out "Christite" without concern, and demanded Patricia's
contribution.

"Aymerite," she ventured.

Christopher's glances wandered from one to the other. She was seated
on his own particular chair close to Caesar, in whose company she felt
a strange comfort and protection, a security against her own heart
that could not yet be trusted to shield the secret of her love.

Mr. Aston was called on in his turn and he looked at Christopher with
a smile.

"I think we are all wasting our time and wits," he said placidly.
"Christopher has his own name ready and your suggestions are
superfluous."

They clamoured for confirmation of this and Christopher had to admit
it was true.

"I call it Patrimondi," he said slowly, his eyes on Patricia, "because
it will conquer the country and the world in time."

Which explanation was accepted more readily by the younger members of
the party than by the elder.

But "Patrimondi" it remained, and if he chose to perpetuate the claims
of the future rather than the past in this business of nomenclature,
it was surely his own affair. Patricia, at all events, made no
objection. She had recovered her equilibrium to find the relationship
between them was so old that it called for nothing but mute acceptance
on her part: the only thing that was new was her recognition of the
barrier between them, whose imaginary shadow lay so cold across her
heart.

Constantia offered a refuge. Her watching eyes divined something of
Patricia's unrest. She visited her that night at the period of
hair-brushing and found her dreaming before a dying fire.

"You get up too early," Constantia remonstrated, "it's a pernicious
habit. If you would come and stay with me in London, I would teach you
to keep rational hours."

"Would you