I even allowed my thoughts to wander to the pipe that reposed in my coat pocket.

Another minute and I could turn down the surgery gas and shut the outer door.
The fussy little clock gave a sort of preliminary cough or hiccup, as if it should say: "Ahem! ladies and gentlemen, I am about to strike." And at that moment, the bottle-boy opened the door and, thrusting in his head, uttered the one word: "Gentleman." Extreme economy of words is apt to result in ambiguity.

But I understood.

In Kennington Lane, the race of mere men and women appeared to be extinct.

They were all gentlemen--unless they were ladies or children--even as the Liberian army was said to consist entirely of generals.