St. Martin's Street, January.
On Thursday, I had another adventure, and one that has made me grin ever
since. A gentleman inquiring for my father, was asked into the parlour.
The then inhabitants were only my mother and me. In entered a square old
gentleman, well-wigged, formal, grave and important. He seated himself.
My mother asked if he had any message for my father? “No, none.”
Then he regarded me with a certain dry kind of attention for some time;
after which, turning suddenly to my mother, he demanded,
“Pray, ma'am, is this your daughter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“O! this is Evelina, is it?”
“No, sir,” cried I, staring at him, and glad none of you were in the way
to say “Yes.”
“No?” repeated he, incredulous; “is not your name Evelina, ma'am?”
“Dear, no, sir,” again quoth I, staring harder.
“Ma'am,” cried he, drily; “I beg your pardon! I had understood your name
was Evelina.”
Soon: after, he went away.
And when he put down his card, who should it prove but Dr. Franklin.[73]
Was it not queer?