"Your nose?" she said.
"Yes," I said, "my nose."
"But why," she said, "do you want your nose described?"
"I am not the one," I said, "who wants my nose described. It is Sir Edward Grey, the—ahem—Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. In the midst of all his tremendous duties he still has time to ask me to tell him what my nose is like."
"This," said Francesca, "is the short cut to Colney Hatch. Will somebody tell me what this man is talking about?"
"I will," I said. "I am talking about my nose. There is no mystery about it."
"No," she said, "your nose is there all right. I can see it with the naked eye."
"Do not," I said, "give way to frivolity. I may have to go to France. Therefore I may want a passport. I am now filling in an application for it, and I find to my regret that I have got to give details of my personal appearance, including my nose. I ask you to help me, and all you can do is to allude darkly to Colney Hatch. Is that kind? Is it even wifely?"
"But why can't you describe it yourself?"
"Don't be absurd, Francesca. What does a man know about his own nose? He only sees it full-face for a few minutes every morning when he's shaving or parting his hair. If he ever does catch a glimpse of it in profile the dreadful and unexpected sight unmans him and he does his best to forget it. I give you my word of honour, Francesca, I haven't the vaguest notion what my nose is really like."