Casimir didn’t know what to say to this, so he changed the subject. “Well, Chrysanthemum is still a good name. It isn’t very easy to make fun of. When I read the dictionary, I looked up all of the names for flowers. Quite honestly, I wouldn’t want my name to be pansy. Just think of what kids would say if I went to school! It’s odd how one word can have two entirely different meanings,” he said, with a little chuckle. He wasn’t exactly making fun or anybody, but I realized in that had to set him straight. I took a deep breath. “People used to call my father a pansy,” I said, my voice low. I looked down at the floor sadly. “Ess, are you alright? Is something wrong?” he asked. “Nothing…it’s just…well…this was something that I could never tell anybody,” I whispered, the vexation and nervousness residing in my voice. He might’ve known. Casimir was an intelligent, albeit sickly boy, so he could put two and two together. “But you can tell me,” he said, gently. And so I did.