The only Y's were Yseult and Yvonne, but these were useless, as we intend never to live in Kensington. Winifred we also dismissed and Wilhelmina. "How about Victoria?" I said. But Naomi remained firm. I dwelt fondly on Virginia. Miss Virginia Falconer sounds distinguished. Naomi, however, was against it. I like Veronica too, but not so well as Virginia. The other V's were negligible--Vashti and Vesta; but I affected to put in a plea for Volumnia. "I could never nurse a Volumnia," said Naomi. "It is so immense. It also sounds like a steamer." "Still," I said, "there ought to be a Volumnia Falconer, just to cheer up the birth announcements in the _Times_. Think of the double portions of samples that you would receive! To call a child Volumnia is as useful as having twins." "I don't like it; but if you really want the samples you could call the child Volumnia in the _Times_ and then change the name. A _Times_ announcement is not binding," were Naomi's astonishing words: her first appearance as a profound strategist! "If you talk like that," I said, "and the child takes after you, we had better call her Portia at once, or Christabel." And so we explored the alphabet, rejecting name after name for the most curious reasons. This one because Naomi was at school with a girl named like that whom she did not like; that one because some public _bête noire_ had it; a third because it was too Jewish; another because it was too scriptural, and Naomi had herself suffered for that; a fifth because it would not go with Falconer; and many because they smacked of the stage. In the end we found ourselves with two names about as different as they could be, over the merits of which we were obliged to fight. These were Placida and Lavender. Lavender was Naomi's choice; Placida was mine. "Placida is charming," Naomi said, "but if names, as they say, have an influence on character, won't she be a little too quiet?" "Can she be?" I replied. "Well, it would be dreadful if it meant loss of spirit. Meekness is so unattractive." "She'd inherit the earth," I said. "Oh no," exclaimed Naomi, "don't let her do that! I would like Placida," Naomi went on, "if it could dominate her character only in her very early days." "And nights," I added hastily. "Yes, and nights. But after that? Should a name be so descriptive? Suppose she became a terrible romp?" "I hope so," I said. "Then there will be piquancy of contrast added, and she will be the more likely to attract the millionaire whom all good fathers hope to descry on the horizon." "Don't be foolish," said Naomi. "You will be furious when she falls in love, and unbearable when she is engaged." "Very well, then," I said; "Lavender. But we can't call her Lavender. It's too artificial. Its special charm is that it's such a beautiful word. We can think of her as Lavender, but call her something else. What shall that be?" "Nan," said Naomi, by an inspiration; and so it was settled.