“This is much nicer than Alexandretta, isn’t it?” said Pasquale familiarly. “And Sir Marcus is an improvement on Hamdi Effendi.”
“Oh, yes. Seer Marcous lets me do whatever I like,” said Carlotta.
“I’m shot if I do,” I exclaimed. “The confinement of your existence in the East makes you exaggerate the comparative immunity from restriction which you enjoy in England.”
I notice that Carlotta is always impressed when I use high sounding words.
“Still, if you could make love over garden walls, you must have had a pretty slack time, even in Alexandretta,” said Pasquale.
Obviously Carlotta had saved me the trouble of explaining her.
“I once met our friend Hamdi,” Pasquale continued. “He was the politest old ruffian that ever had a long nose and was pitted with smallpox.”
“Yes, yes!” cried Carlotta, delighted. “That is Hamdi.”
“Is there any disreputable foreigner that you are not familiar with?” I asked, somewhat sarcastically.
“I hope not,” he laughed. “You must know I had got into a deuce of a row at Aleppo, about eighteen months ago, and had to take to my heels. Alexandretta is the port of Aleppo and Hamdi is a sort of boss policeman there.”