"
"Not bad going, that," observed Denny, in an approving tone.
"Is he, then, _un grec_?" asked Mrs. Hipgrave, who loves a scrap of
French.
"In both senses, I believe," answered Hamlyn, viciously.
"And what's his name?" said I.
"Really, I don't recollect," said Hamlyn, rather petulantly.
"It doesn't matter," observed Beatrice, attacking her oysters, which
had now made their appearance.
"My dear Beatrice," I remonstrated, "you are the most charming
creature in the world, but not the only one. You mean that it doesn't
matter to you."
"Oh, don't be tiresome. It doesn't matter to you, either, you know. Do
go away, and leave me to dine in peace."
"Half a minute," said Hamlyn. "I thought I'd got it just now, but it's
gone again. Look here, though; I believe it's one of those long things
that end in 'poulos.'"
"Oh, it ends in 'poulos,' does it?" said I, in a meditative tone.
"My dear Charlie," said Beatrice, "I shall end in Bedlam, if you're so
very tedious. What in the world I shall do when I'm married, I don't
know."
"My dearest!" said Mrs. Hipgrave; and a stage direction might add:
"Business with brows, as before."
"'Poulos'?" I repeated.
"Could it be Constantinopoulos?" asked Hamlyn, with a nervous
deference to my Hellenic learning.
"It might, conceivably," I hazarded, "be Constantine Stefanopoulos.
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