“And how is that charming young lady, your ward, Miss Carlotta?” continued my tormentor.
“Yes,” I answered hurriedly. “A charming young lady. You used to give her sweets. Have you noticed that a fondness for sugar plums induces an equanimity of character? It also spoils the teeth. That is why the front teeth of all American women are so bad.”
I must be endowed with the low cunning of the fox, who, I am told, by a swift turn puts his pursuers off the scent. The learned term the rhetorical device an ignoratio elenchi. My young friend’s patriotism rose in furious defence of his countrywomen’s beauty. I looked round the luxuriously furnished vestibule, wondering from which of the many doors the object of my hatred would emerge, and my young friend’s talk continued to ruffle the fringe of my mind.
“I’m afraid you’re expecting some one rather badly,” he remarked with piercing perceptiveness.
“A dull acquaintance,” said I. “I shall be sorry when his arrival puts an end to our engaging conversation.”
Then the lift door opened and Hamdi stepped out like the Devil in an Alhambra ballet.
He looked at my card and looked at me. He bowed politely.
“I did not know whom I should have the pleasure of seeing,” said he in his execrable French. “In what way can I be of service to Sir Marcus Ordeyne?”
“What have you done with Carlotta?” I asked, glaring at him.
His ignoble small-pox pitted face assumed an expression of bland inquiry.