'Mrs. Jose! Oh, indeed.'
'She knew some people here of distinction, and they agreed to receive me and polish me, so as to make a lady of me; you understand, deal with me as Mr. Thomas Gasset does with the pebbles, rub and smooth and bring to a surface. It was your own desire.'
'I—well. Oh, certainly. Nothing could be better; but do they know?—excuse me, is it a matter of knowledge?'
'What do you mean, sir?'
She fixed her eye on him.
'I mean—I hardly can find words to adequately express my meaning. I would say—What name do you carry here?'
'I have told you, father. Winefred Holwood. Holwood is your name.'
'To be sure. Exactly. I wish I had my key, but they have deprived me of it. Yes, of course, inevitable. And your—I mean your——'
'Mother?'
'Precisely. Is she also here?'