“I can hardly express my feelings about it!” cried Mr. Lambert, losing patience. “Really, my dear sir—”
“One moment, please,” urged Hyacinth, “I—I can change it—”
“No doubt! No doubt! Perhaps you can change your skin—indeed I should not be surprised—”
“But really, sir. Allow me to explain. I—well, it is necessary for you to know sir, that, very often, persons who embrace any line of artistic activity may desire to assume a fictitious name—”
“I can easily imagine that in many cases regard for their personal safety would force them to it,” observed Mr. Lambert, drily.
“Precisely. And sir—I confess that heretofore you have known me under a name that—that is not my own.”
“Not your own!” roared Mr. Lambert. “What the deuce do you mean sir? Not your own! Then whose is it?”
“No one’s sir, believe me!” cried Hyacinth, backing away from the indignant old man. “I invented it, sir—”
“And you mean to tell me that you have had the audacity to enjoy my hospitality under false pretences!—to say nothing of paying court to my daughter—”
“Pray, sir—one moment!” implored Hyacinth, wringing his hands. “Oh, don’t misunderstand me—”