“I am Mrs. Morris,” she said.
You at once perceived that she was even more than imperial. She was a woman of forty, dark, slender, with shell-rimmed, round lenses that gave her that look between a Chinese philosopher and an ancient owl, which those tortoise-shell goggles always do. You also obtained the impression that a completely successful operation had removed Mrs. Morris's sense of humor.
“I should like, if you please—” began Jerningham; but Mrs. Morris interrupted with an effect as of thrusting an icicle into the interior mechanism of a clock.
“I beg your pardon, but we must know with whom we are dealing. What is the name, please?”
“I prefer not to give you mine yet.”
“Oh no, sir; I must know.”
“Suppose I had given you a false one, how would you have been the wiser?”
“Oh, but also you must give me the name of your doctor.”
“He sent me here.”
“And who is he, sir?”