We were at a small round table, and she directly in opposition to him.

Upon her right was Antonio, and my heart grew cold to see how she listened to him.
For Antonio could talk.

At that time he spoke English even better than I, though without some knowledge of the North-American idiom which my travels with Poor Jr.

had given me.

He was one of those splendid egoists who seem to talk in modesty, to keep themselves behind scenes, yet who, when the curtain falls, are discovered to be the heroes, after all, though shown in so delicate a fashion that the audience flatters itself in the discovery.
And how practical was this fellow, how many years he had been developing his fascinations! I was the only person of that small company who could have a suspicion that his moustache was dyed, that his hair was toupee, or that hints of his real age were scorpions and adders to him.