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.
"Now look here, Miss Ramsbotham--no," I broke off.

"Such an appellation is anachronistic, incongruous, and infinitely absurd.

I can't use it.

I must take the liberty of addressing you as Carlotta." "But I've told you that Carlotta is my name," she said, in uncomprehending innocence.
"And mine is Sir Marcus Ordeyne.