She shook her head, still bending over the baby.
"It's all right, dear," she whispered.
"You're so soft nowadays, one hardly dare speak," he muttered. "Sorry,
dear," and with a penitent kiss for the back of her neck he hastened
downstairs again.
The christening was held two weeks later, in the small Episcopalian
church of Crab's Bay. Stefan could see no reason for it, as neither he
nor Mary was orthodox, but when he suggested omitting the ceremony she
looked at him wide-eyed.
"Not christen him, Stefan? Oh, I don't think that would be fair," she
said. Her manner was simple, but there was finality in her tone--it made
him feel that wherever her child was concerned she would be adamant.
The baby's godmother was, of course, Constance, and his godfathers,
equally obviously, Farraday and McEwan. Mary made the ceremony the
occasion of a small at-home, inviting the numerous friends from whom she
had received congratulations or gifts for the baby.
Miss Mason had insisted on herself baking the christening cake; Farraday
as usual supplied a sheaf of flowers. In the drawing room the little
Elliston's presents were displayed, a beautiful old cup from Farraday, a
christening robe, and a spoon, "pusher," and fork from Constance, a
silver bowl "For Elliston's porridge from his friend Wallace McEwan," and
a Bible in stout leather binding from Mrs.
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