Mortimer raises his drooping eyelids, and slightly opens his mouth. But a faint smile, expressive of “What’s the use!” passes over his face, and he drops his eyelids and shuts his mouth.

“Now, Mortimer,” says Lady Tippins, rapping the sticks of her closed green fan upon the knuckles of her left hand⁠—which is particularly rich in knuckles, “I insist upon your telling all that is to be told about the man from Jamaica.”

“Give you my honour I never heard of any man from Jamaica, except the man who was a brother,” replies Mortimer.

“Tobago, then.”

“Nor yet from Tobago.”