"I don't like him at all," she said.

How she managed to elude the ticket collector at Vauxhall I could
not exactly discover. Apparently she told him, in her confiding
manner, that Harry had it, and when he found no Harry in the
train and came back to say so, she turned her dewy imploring eyes
on him and the sentimental varlet melted. At Waterloo a man had
told her
she must get out of the carriage--she had travelled alone in it
--and she had meekly obeyed. She had wandered out of the station
and across a bridge and had eventually found herself in the
Embankment Gardens. Then she had asked me how to find Harry.
Really she was ridiculously like Thomas a Becket's Saracen mother
crying in London for Gilbert. And the most ludicrous part of the
resemblance was that she did not know the creature's surname.

"By the way," said I, "what is your name?"

"Carlotta."

"Carlotta what? " I asked.

"I have no other name."

"Your father--the Vice-Consul--had one."

She wrinkled her young forehead in profound mental effort.

"Ramsbotham," she said at last, triumphantly.