“Allow me,” said he, taking round the cups of strong, black brew. He threw a resentful glance, as he did so, at the Greek gentleman, who never took his share in dispensing these small courtesies. He only stood, as he usually did, in front of the empty fireplace, his hands in his pockets, and his dark eyes roaming sardonically round the room. He was still spoken of as “the Greek gentleman,” since no one had mastered his name. Lydia had listened with interest to various conversations about him, but had derived little information from them. It might be entertaining, but it was not particularly illuminating to hear Mrs. Bulteel say to Mrs. Clarence, as Lydia had heard her say a little while ago, in a very penetrating manner:
“That’s not a face I should trust.”
Mrs. Clarence, who never ventured to differ from anybody, and least of all from Mrs. Bulteel, who had a live husband and son to testify to the fact that she had justified her feminine existence, had only replied doubtfully:
“No? Well, perhaps you’re right. What makes you think...?”
“He looks as though he had foreign blood in him.” Mrs. Bulteel adduced the damning grounds for her inference with gloomy prescience, which she appeared to think amply justified by the facts that the Greek spoke English with a slight accent, and had a name that even Miss Nettleship only rendered as Mr. M ... m ... m.
A little while afterwards the unconquerable Mrs. Bulteel had actually asked him outright, “And do tell me, how is your name pronounced?” in a very intelligent way, as though she knew of two or three excellent alternatives.
To which the Greek gentleman had replied, with slightly outspread, olive fingers:
“Just—exactly—as you please.”
“But how do you say it in your own country?”
“I am not in my own country.”