3/23 just when he does not quite feel himself, eh ?... You don't feel quite yourself, I fancy just now... er... beg pardon, Chauvelin..." He sat there quite comfortably, one slender hand resting on the gracefully-fashioned hilt of his sword--the sword of Lorenzo Cenci,--the other holding up the gold-rimed eyeglass through which he was regarding his avowed enemy; he was dressed as for a ball, and his perpetually amiable smile lurked round the corners of his firm lips. |