“Good heavens!” I cried, “the ruffian has even taught you to swear. If you dare to say that wicked word again, I’ll punish you severely. What is his horrid name?”
“Pasquale,” said Carlotta.
“Pasquale?”
“Yes, he likes to hear me say ‘dam.’ Oh, the other? Oh, no, he is too stupid. He does not say anything. His name is Timkins. I only play with him. He is so funny. He can go and kill himself; I won’t care.”
“Never mind about Timkins,” said I, “I want to hear about Pasquale. When did he teach you that wicked, wicked word?”
I think Carlotta flushed as she regarded the point of her red slipper.
“I went for a walk and he met me at the corner and walked here by my side. Was that wicked?”
“What would the excellent Hamdi Effendi have said to it?”
Woman-like she evaded my question.
“I hope Hamdi is dead. Do you think so?”