“And will you have the goodness to tell me, sir, at once, what and who you are?” bellowed Mr. Lambert. “Come, I won’t tolerate your insolence.”
“Oh, my dear Mr. Lambert, don’t, don’t be hasty. I—I don’t know what I am. But I—”
“What is your name, sir?” shouted Mr. Lambert.
“My name, sir, is—Winkler. P. Hyacinth Winkler. The P. stands for Pol—”
“Winkler!” gasped Mr. Lambert, “Winkler!”
“Winkler!” murmured Elise, faintly.
“For Polybius,” continued Hyacinth, not heeding their ejaculations. “I will conceal nothing from you sir. The P. stands for Polybius. My sponsors, not I, are to be blamed—”
“Winkler!” repeated Mr. Lambert.
“If you are afflicted with the same sensitiveness of the auditory nerve that nature bestowed on me,” went on Hyacinth, “you cannot doubt that there is something in the combination of the word Winkler with the two polysyllabic names preceding it, which is grating, imperfect—”
“Winkler,” Mr. Lambert was still repeating monotonously.