That he thinks of his end a good deal, I am sure; but never morbidly, or with any affectation of sadness, but with the peasant's quiet acceptance of the fact. All his life he has been a tiller of the soil: the same soil, year after year, turning it afresh, sowing it afresh, gathering the harvest afresh, and then beginning all over again--the best school for patience and acceptivity. And so, after some ale had been brought, we said good-night and drove away, for Oxford and London again, or, in other words, for the twentieth century. CHAPTER XXIX IN WHICH NAOMI COMMUNICATES A TREMENDOUS PIECE OF NEWS, AND "PLACIDA" FIGHTS IT OUT WITH "LAVENDER" AND LOSES Naomi was very quiet at breakfast and, I thought, very beautiful. She startled me, afterwards, as I stood at the window, watching the rain, by asking quietly, "Which would you like, Kent, dear, a girl or a boy?" I had a moment's giddiness, but did not show it. "I almost said 'Both,'" I replied. "I shouldn't mind," she said. "But in case I disappoint you to that extent, which do you prefer?" "I would like it to be what you want," I said. "But little girls are rather nice, and biggish girls are rather nice, and a daughter to walk about with when one is white-haired--but erect, of course--is something to look forward to. But you?" "Oh yes," said Naomi, "I would like a girl." "Then let it be a girl," I replied. How differently things happen in novels and in life. Had I been a husband in a novel or a play I should have been thunderstruck that anything of this kind could possibly be happening; while my poor wife would have crimsoned and hid her face on my shoulder. As it was, we both laughed a little and I stroked her pretty head; and then she sat down to add up some accounts and I went to the Zoo. But underneath we were as conscious of the epoch-making moment as any of the husbands in the novels who, try as they may, cannot succeed in anticipating these somewhat trite events. A few days later we began seriously to consider the question of names. I found on a bookstall a little pocket encyclopædia which gave two of its precious pages to columns and columns of girls' names in small print, in alphabetical order. Some of these names I will admit were outside the domain of practical politics. Jezebel, for example. No child of mine shall ever be called Jezebel, nor do I care much for Judith; although Judy I think pretty. But Naomi would have a boy rather than call her daughter Judy. Privately I may say that I believe that Naomi wants a boy; I believe that all women would like their babies to be sons. But she pretends that her wishes coincide with mine, and, after all, a girl is the next thing to a boy. Beginning at the wrong end, our first duty was to examine the claims of Zoë, but that did not take long. No child of ours, we decided, should have a name that carried a diæresis with it. That is an axiom. Zoë therefore went. "Zena?" I said. "Certainly not," replied Naomi.