The City of Masksby George Barr McCutcheon
"Well, who is it,
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THE Marchioness carefully draped the dust-cloth over the head of an andiron and, before putting the question to the parlour-maid, consulted, with the intensity of a near-sighted person, the ornate French clock in the centre of the mantelpiece. Then she brushed her fingers on the voluminous apron that almost completely enveloped her slight person.
"Well, who is it, Julia?"
"It's Lord Temple, ma'am, and he wants to know if you're too busy to come to the 'phone. If you are, I'm to ask you something."
The Marchioness hesitated. "How do you know it is Lord Eric? Did he mention his name?"
"He did, ma'am. He said 'this is Tom Trotter speaking, Julia, and is your mistress disengaged?' And so I knew it couldn't be any one else but his Lordship."
"And what are you to ask me?"
"He wants to know if he may bring a friend around tonight, ma'am. A gentleman from Constantinople, ma'am."
"A Turk? He knows I do not like Turks," said the Marchioness, more to herself than to Julia.
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