“Well, you see, his father was a physician, and he—he—well he was an idolater of his profession, and he—well, he was a very eccentric man, and—” “What do they _stand_ for! What are you shuffling about?” “They—well they stand for Spinal Meningitis. His father being a phy—” “I never heard such an infamous name! Nobody can ever call a person _that_—a person they love. I wouldn’t call an enemy by such a name. It sounds like an epithet.” After a moment, she added with a kind of consternation, “Why, it would be _my_ name! Letters would come with it on.” “Yes—Mrs. Spinal Meningitis Snodgrass.” “Don’t repeat it—don’t; I can’t bear it. Was the father a lunatic?” “No, that is not charged.” “I am glad of that, because that is transmissible. What do you think _was_ the matter with him, then?” “Well, I don’t really know. The family used to run a good deal to idiots, and so, maybe—” “Oh, there isn’t any maybe about it. This one was an idiot.” “Well, yes—he could have been. He was suspected.” “Suspected!” said Sally, with irritation. “Would one _suspect_ there was going to be a dark time if he saw the constellations fall out of the sky? But that is enough about the idiot, I don’t take any interest in idiots; tell me about the son.” “Very well, then, this one was the eldest, but not the favorite. His brother, Zylobalsamum—” “Wait—give me a chance to realize that. It is perfectly stupefying. Zylo—what did you call it?” “Zylobalsamum.” “I never heard such a name: It sounds like a disease. Is it a disease?” “No, I don’t think it’s a disease. It’s either Scriptural or—” “Well, it’s not Scriptural.” “Then it’s anatomical. I knew it was one or the other. Yes, I remember, now, it _is_ anatomical. It’s a ganglion—a nerve centre—it is what is called the zylobalsamum process.” “Well, go on; and if you come to any more of them, omit the names; they make one feel so uncomfortable.” “Very well, then. As I said, this one was not a favorite in the family, and so he was neglected in every way, never sent to school, always allowed to associate with the worst and coarsest characters, and so of course he has grown up a rude, vulgar, ignorant, dissipated ruffian, and—” “He? It’s no such thing! You ought to be more generous than to make such a statement as that about a poor young stranger who—who—why, he is the very opposite of that! He is considerate, courteous, obliging, modest, gentle, refined, cultivated—_oh_, for shame! how can you say such things about him?” “I don’t blame you, Sally—indeed I haven’t a word of blame for you for being blinded by—your affection—blinded to these minor defects which are so manifest to others who—” “Minor defects? Do you call these minor defects? What are murder and arson, pray?”