“That,” said I, “is Barbran.”
“Barbran,” he repeated with a rising inflection. “It sounds like a breakfast food.”
“As she pronounces it, it sounds like a strain of music,” said I.
“What’s the rest of her name?”
“I am not officially authorized to communicate that.”
“Are you officially authorized to present your friends to her?”
“On what do you base your claim to acquaintanceship, my boy?” I asked austerely.
“Oh, claim! Well, you see, a couple of days ago, she was on the cross-town car; and I—well, I just happened to notice her, you know. That’s all.”
“Yet I am informed on good and sufficient authority that her appearance is not such as to commend her, visually, if I may so express myself, to the discriminating eye.”
“Who’s the fool—” began Mr. Stacey hotly.