He was a slender, handsome, swarthy man of thirty, scrupulously dressed, as graceful and elegant in his movements as a fencing master, which indeed he might have been; for his skill with the foils was a matter of pride to himself and notoriety to all the world.

Nor was it by any means the only skill he might have boasted, for Jeronymo de Samoval was in many things, a very subtle, supple gentleman.

His friendship with the O'Moys, now some three months old, had been considerably strengthened of late by the fact that he had unexpectedly become one of the most hostile critics of the Council of Regency as lately constituted, and one of the most ardent supporters of the Wellingtonian policy.
He bowed with supremest grace to the ladies, ventured to kiss the fair, smooth hand of his hostess, undeterred by the frosty stare of O'Moy's blue eyes whose approval of all men was in inverse proportion to their approval of his wife--and finally proffered her the armful of early roses that he brought.
"These poor roses of Portugal to their sister from England," said his softly caressing tenor voice.
"Ye're a poet," said O'Moy tartly.
"Having found Castalia here," said, the Count, "shall I not drink its limpid waters ?" "Not, I hope, while there's an agreeable vintage of Port on the table.

A morning whet, Samoval ?" O'Moy invited him, taking up the decanter.
"Two fingers, then--no more.

It is not my custom in the morning.