What's in a Name?

In Selecting a Husband It's Always Wiser to Consider his Habits Rather than his Name

IN VANITY FAIR

I DON'T know any better way to describe Jane and Emma Hunt than to say they are the sort of girls who can well afford to be named Jane and Emma Hunt. Of course, if they had had straight hair and freckles, and hadn't been the daughters of Mrs. J. Hartington Hunt, they might have cracked under the strain—but, as it is, everybody says "What quaint names!" or "How distinguished!" I hope you get the idea I am trying to convey, but, if you don't, I can produce plenty of reliable witnesses to swear they are far and away the most attractive girls in our crowd. Most people consider Jane the cleverest, but, personally, I have been in love with Emma ever since we went to Miss Blank's school together—it was co-educational up to seven years of age—and, to my way of thinking, Jane is a little too—too—but I'd better get on with my story.

We were sitting on deck after lunch, the third day out from New York, when the girls started talking about a chap, five or six chairs away, who had made a tremendous impression on both of them, especially on Jane. In fact, they had talked of nothing else for three days and I was beginning to be a little irritable.

"I don't see why mother felt she must ask you to take the last chair at our table," complained Jane, settling herself into her steamer chair. "Fate would probably have put him in it, and then we needn't have asked you to pick him up for us. You seem so disagreeable about it!"

"Probably," said I, ignoring the last sentence, "fate would have sent you the buyer for the 'Kumfy-Korset' company, who eats lobster salad three times a day under the impression that shell-fish on a ship are sure to be perfectly-"

"I can't help it," she interrupted rudely. "He's the only man on the boat I want to meet—or, for that matter, to marry!"

"THAT will do, Jane," said Mrs. Hunt, severely. "You and Emma are carrying your interest in this—person—too far. We know nothing whatever about him, but if appearance counts for anything, I should say he was distinctly ordinary."

"Why, mother!" broke in Emma indignantly, "his clothes are simply divine and—"

"That's exactly what I am trying to tell you, my dear. No gentleman would dress so well. The man's an actor." And Mrs. Hartington Hunt, who considers herself New York's best Social Diagnostician, opened her book with the air of having settled the question for all time.

"Perhaps they are judging by his name," I remarked with biting sarcasm—I can be fearfully biting at times. "It's awfully distinguished. Jabez Jones!"

"Oh, perfect!" murmured Jane. "A name like that proves he's Somebody or he'd have changed it long ago. It stands for Family! It means that a Jabez Jones fought with William the Conqueror—or, at least, against him. It means a Jabez Jones was on the Mayflower—it means that endless Jabez Joneses have distinguished themselves, until each new generation is afraid not to wish the name on its first-born-"

"Hush, Jane—he'll hear you," giggled Emma. "But, seriously, Harold, couldn't you pick him up for us? We were quite ready to do it ourselves, yesterday afternoon, but just as we decided to ask him the time, the ship's bell rang. So that was killed!"

I WAS speechless. Jane was bad enough —but Emma!

"Oh, Harold, please!" pleaded Jane. "I'd do it myself, but I can't bear to have him think I'm so crude. He's so tactful and charming himself—his manners are so delightful—he knows so well What's What and When to Do It! He's amusing—clever —he likes the things I like—music, pictures, plays. He knows the most interesting people all over the world. He talks fascinatingly on any subject—he takes frivolous things seriously and serious things frivolously, and he never tells the truth unless it's agreeable. He loves travelling. He's a perfect companion for an ocean voyage— he never makes jokes about Prohibition or seasickness, and he doesn't remember places simply by the things he had to eat in them. He'd never drag you from your steamer chair when all you ask of life is to be let alone, and say 'Come on, now! What you need is a good, bracing run around the deck'!"

"Who did?" I demanded angrily. "And how do you know these things? You never heard the fellow open his mouth! You never heard him-"

"Oh, don't yell so," said Jane pleasantly; and then she half closed her eyes and smiled—that sort of cryptic, MonaLisa stuff. . "I—know!" she said firmly.

"Very well," I said stiffly. "Personally, I don't think your friend would attract anyone's attention unless he fell down as he came into the room. But, if you two feel you can't live without him, I'll do my best. That is," I added cruelly, "if Mrs. Hunt will permit me."

WHAT? Who?" said that lady, coming out of her book. "No indeed— certainly not!". If he's not an actor he's probably a— Oh, how nice! H&re's the Hon. Cyril coming to look us.up at last!"

"Did you say 'look us over'?" suggested Emma, glancing down the deck where the Honorable Cyril Massingham was approaching. .

"Please don't be vulgar, Emma," said Mrs. Hunt. "He is a charming fellow, and I only wish he had spent the season in New York, instead, of rushing off to those Canadian ranches or mines or whatever they were. His mother—she was Mary Vining,. Harold—wants him to see a great deal of the girls in London, and-" But I wasn't listening. Mrs. Hunt belongs to the school of thought which considers Coronets infinitely superior to Kind Hearts, and I knew instinctively that the Honorable Cyril was going to be a drawback to my voyage.

"Look!" said Jane, suddenly sitting bolt upright and grabbing my arm. "Harold! Emma! Look! He knows him!" The Honorable Cyril had fallen enthusiastically upon Mr. Jabez Jones, and before we knew what had happened they joined us. There was the confusion of introductions, and then Jane and the Jones person disappeared along the deck. When I came to, Massingham was saying "Oh, yes, fearfully clever! Has mines all over the world—Africa, British-Columbia, Russia—and a simply indecent income. Knows everything—everybody—surprised you don't know him, although, of course, he's never long in one place. Yes, the name is odd—old Welsh, you know, but Jay's a Canadian-"

IT WAS not until the night before we landed that I got a chance for a word with Jane. She and Jones had been inseparable, and I had been busy every minute circumventing Mrs. Hunt's plans for Emma and the Honorable Cyril. I had just finished dressing for dinner, and, stepping out on deck for a cigarette, I met Jane, with a look on her face that told me everything.

"Jane," I said sternly, blocking the doorway, "do you realize the step you are taking? Do you realize you are going to be Jane—Jones?"

"But Cyril says he's certain to be on the next Birthday List—and 'Lady Jane' has a lovely, romantic, sort of beheaded sound, don't you think?" she laughed.

"He's a corker," I answered, "and I want to take back anything I said about him those first three days. You were right —he's everything you said he was, and more. But how the deuce did you know?"

Jane turned and looked through the late twilight at the misty outlines of the Irish coast.

"Why,—that first day," she said slowly, "I saw that he was reading Vanity Fair".

K. D.