“I know it,” I answered.  “But, to tell the truth, Laura, there was something very interesting about her clothes to me to-day.  That scarf!  Don’t you think, Laura, that an India scarf is always handsome?”

“Always handsome?  What! all colors and qualities?”

“Of course not.  I mean a handsome one,—­like Louisa Russell’s.”

“Why, yes, Del.  A handsome scarf is always handsome,—­that is, until it is defaced or worn out.  What a literal mood you are in just now!”

“Well, Laura,”—­I hesitated, and then added slowly, “don’t you think that an India scarf has become almost a matter of necessity?  I mean, that everybody has one?”

“In Boston, you mean.  I understand the New York traders say they sell ten cashmere shawls to Boston people where they do one to a New-Yorker.”

“Mrs. Harris told me, Laura, that she could not do without one.  She says she considers them a real necessary of life.  She has lost four of those little neck-scarfs, and, she says, she just goes and buys another.  Her neck is always cold just there.”

“Is it, really?” said Laura, dryly.  “I suppose nothing short of cashmere could possibly warm it!”

“Well, it is a pretty thing for a present, any way,” said I, rather impatiently; for I had settled on a scarf as unexceptionable in most respects.  There was the bargain, to begin with.  Then it was always a good thing to hand down to one’s heirs.  The Gores had a long one that belonged to their grandmamma, and they could draw it through a gold ring.  It was good to wear, and good to leave.  Indicated blood, too,—­and—­and——­In short, a great deal of nonsense was on the end of my tongue, waiting my leave to slip off, when Laura said,—­

“Didn’t Lieutenant Herbert say he would bring you Darley’s ’Margaret’?”

“Yes,—­he is to bring it to-morrow.  What a pretty name Clarence Herbert is!  Lieutenant Clarence Herbert,—­there’s a good name for you!  How many pretty names there are!”

“You wouldn’t be at a loss to name boys,” said Laura, laughing,—­“like Mr. Stickney, who named his boys One, Two, and Three.  Think of going by the name of One Stickney!”

“That isn’t so bad as to be named ‘The Fifteenth of March.’  And that was a real name, given to a girl who was born at sea—­I wonder what she was called ‘for short.’”

“Sweet fifteen, perhaps.”

“That would do.  Yes,—­Herbert, Robert,” said I, musingly, “and Philip, and Arthur, and Algernon, Alfred, Sidney, Howard, Rupert”——­

“Oh, don’t, Del!  You are foolish, now.”

“How, Laura?” said I, consciously.

“Why don’t you say America?”

“Oh, what a fall!”

“Enough better than your fine Lieutenant, Del, with his taste, and his sentiments, and his fine bows, and ‘his infinite deal of nothing.’”

I sighed and said nothing.  The name-fancies had gone by in long procession.  America had buried them all, and stamped sternly on their graves.