And when she saw her name, as he and thousands of Chinese years had given it to her, engraved on the cards she ordered the next day, she decided that Sên had a _chic_ of its own. (The venerable name, the honorable name of Sên, _chic_!) She grew fond of writing her name and took special pleasure and pains in making the tent-like accent and perching it as carefully and daintily over its “e” as she did a new toque on her beautifully dressed hair. And she found that its very unusualness made it a social asset—if a cheap one—in avid London; and revalued it for this. Her handwriting was as individual and almost as pretty as she was—and many more than her husband thought so—and her name as she wrote it looked particularly well. She always signed herself “Ruby Sên.” And Sên King-lo never asked her to write it “Sên Ruby.” But he wished it. The other small cloud was a name-cloud, too, and more permanent. Mrs. Sên did not know what to call her husband. “King-lo” she did not care for—she thought it had a heathenish sound, and smacked of Limehouse laundries—though she had the sweet good taste never to tell Sên so. “King” by itself she particularly disliked. “It would be too silly to call you ‘King’ all over the place when you’re only a Mister. And I won’t call you ‘Sên,’ for you are not a peer.” She tried to invent a name of her own for him but couldn’t find one. Finally she called him “Lo” thinking it funny and short and belittling at first. But she soon forgot that she had, and Sên thought its sound from her lips the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. And beyond these two Ivy had never felt a shadow since she sailed from New York City in a jade-colored green dress that she had worn once at a Rosehill garden party. The baby could not write its name yet—some five-months-old babies cannot—and no question had arisen as yet as to whether that important signature would be “Ruben Sên” or “Sên Ruben.” Sên King-lo had named their firstborn, rather insisting on “Ruben” in place of the “Ruby” he had wished. But he realized that even a Chinese man—very probably a future great President—could not appropriately go through life and international preëminence under the winsome name of Ruby. But the father liked the sound of “Ruben” better than the mother did. Ruby—the young mother—enjoyed her social popularity keenly, and neither she nor Sên suspected that it had grown even more from the estimate in which several eminent people held him than from the undeniable charm of her personality and easy adaptability. She loved her home, especially the rose-covered crib with only room for two. She enjoyed her husband’s “vogue” and his cordial welcome in high places. But most of all she loved her husband and child—and King-lo the dearer of the two.