OLIVIA. Yes, yes, I understand.
PIM. Drinking himself to death I should have said. I gave him at the most another year to live. Yet to my amazement the first person I saw as I stepped on board the boat that brought me to England last week was this fellow. There was no mistaking him. I spoke to him, in fact; we recognised each other.
OLIVIA. Really?
PIM. He was travelling steerage; we didn't meet again on board, and as it happened at Marseilles, this poor fellow—er—now what was his name? A very unusual one. Began with a—a T, I think.
OLIVIA (with suppressed feeling). Yes, Mr. Pim, yes? (She puts out a hand to GEORGE.)
GEORGE (in an undertone). Nonsense, dear!
PIM (triumphantly). I've got it! Telworthy!
OLIVIA. Telworthy!
GEORGE. Good God!
PIM (a little surprised at the success of his story). An unusual name, is it not? Not a name you could forget when once you had heard it.