One thing, I vow she is not human.
If only Judith were here to advise me! And yet I have an uneasy feeling that Judith will suggest, with a certain violence that is characteristic of her, the one course which I cannot follow: to send Carlotta back to Hamdi Effendi. But I cannot break my word. I would rather, far rather, break Carlotta’s beautiful neck. I have not written to Judith. Nor, by the way, have I received a letter from her. Delphine has been whirling her off her legs, and she is ashamed to confess the delusion of the sequestered life. I wish I were enjoying myself half as much as Judith.
“I have adopted Mademoiselle,” said I to Antoinette this morning. “If she returned to Asia Minor they would put a string round her neck, tie her up in a sack, and throw her into the sea.”
“That would be a pity,” said Antoinette, warmly.
“Cela depend,” said I. “Anyhow she is here, and here she remains.”
“In that case,” said Antoinette, “has Monsieur considered that the poor angel will need clothes and articles of toilette—and this and that and the other?”
“And shoes to hide her shameless tus,” I said.
“They are the most beautiful toes I have ever seen!” cried Antoinette in imbecile admiration. She has bewitched that old woman already.
I put on my hat and went to Wellington Road to consult Mrs. McMurray. Heaven be thanked, thought I, for letting me take her little boy the day before yesterday to see the other animals, and thus winning a mother’s heart. She will help me out of my dilemma. Unfortunately she was not alone. Her husband, who is on the staff of a morning newspaper, was breakfasting when I arrived. He is a great ruddy bearded giant with a rumbling thunder of a laugh like the bass notes of an organ. His assertion of the masculine principle in brawn and beard and bass somewhat overpowers a non-muscular, clean-shaven, and tenor person like myself. Mrs. McMurray, on the contrary, is a small, bright bird of a woman.
I told my amazing story from beginning to end, interrupted by many Hoo-oo-oo-oo’s from McMurray.