Search e-Books

At Waterloo a man had
told her
she must get out of the carriage--she had travelled alone in it
--and she had meekly obeyed. She had wandered out of the station
and across a bridge and had eventually found herself in the
Embankment Gardens. Then she had asked me how to find Harry.
Really she was ridiculously like Thomas a Becket's Saracen mother
crying in London for Gilbert. And the most ludicrous part of the
resemblance was that she did not know the creature's surname.
"By the way," said I, "what is your name?"
"Carlotta."
"Carlotta what? " I asked.
"I have no other name."
"Your father--the Vice-Consul--had one."
She wrinkled her young forehead in profound mental effort.
"Ramsbotham," she said at last, triumphantly.
"Now look here, Miss Ramsbotham--no," I broke off. "Such an
appellation is anachronistic, incongruous, and infinitely absurd.
I can't use it. I must take the liberty of addressing you as
Carlotta."
"But I've told you that Carlotta is my name," she said, in
uncomprehending innocence.


Pages:
42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66