"I just want to know what you are," said my young American friend.
Shall I confess my attraction? She brought a dim suggestion of
Carlotta. She had Carlotta's colouring and Carlotta's candour.
But there the resemblance stopped. The grey matter of her brain
had been distilled from the air of Wall Street, and there were
precious few things between earth and sky of which she hadn't
prescience.
"I'm a broken-down philosopher," said I.
" Oh, that's nothing. So is everybody as soon as they get sense.
What did you make your money in?"
"I've not made any money," I answered, meekly.
"I thought all people who were knighted in your country had made
piles of money."
"Knighted!" I exclaimed. "What on earth do you think a quaint
old guy like myself could possibly have done to get knighted?"
"Then you're a baronet," she said, severely.
"I assure you it is not my fault."
"I thought all baronets were wicked. They are in the novels.
Somehow you don't look like a baronet. You ought to have a black
moustache and an eyeglass and smoke a cigar and sneer.
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