No. That I c a n n o t understand. I have
no sympathy with---
CRAMPTON (shrinking nervously). Stop! Don't say anything more yet;
you don't know what you're doing. Do you want to drive me mad? (She
frowns, finding such petulance intolerable. He adds hastily) No: I'm
not angry: indeed I'm not. Wait, wait: give me a little time to think.
(He stands for a moment, screwing and clinching his brows and hands in
his perplexity; then takes the end chair from the luncheon table and
sits down beside her, saying, with a touching effort to be gentle and
patient) Now, I think I have it. At least I'll try.
GLORIA (firmly). You see! Everything comes right if we only think
it resolutely out.
CRAMPTON (in sudden dread). No: don't think. I want you to feel:
that's the only thing that can help us. Listen! Do you---but first---I
forgot. What's your name? I mean you pet name. They can't very well
call you Sophronia.
GLORIA (with astonished disgust). Sophronia! My name is Gloria. I
am always called by it.
CRAMPTON (his temper rising again). Your name is Sophronia, girl:
you were called after your aunt Sophronia, my sister: she gave you your
first Bible with your name written in it.
GLORIA. Then my mother gave me a new name.
CRAMPTON (angrily). She had no right to do it. I will not allow
this.
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