Superficially, to be sure, he was English enough--from his
speech to his tailoring; and his phlegm (of which we boast) was
unassailable. Nobody knew much of his history; Bill Chevenix used to say
that he was born whole, and thirty, out of an egg dropped upon our coasts
by a migratory roc; that he stepped out, exquisitely dressed, and ordered
a whisky and Apollinaris at the nearest buffet. This, said Chevenix, was
his ordinary breakfast. When Sanchia objected that he might have stepped
out in the afternoon, he replied that it also formed his usual tea, and,
so far as he knew, was the staple of all his meals. "And cigarettes," he
added. "But he would have had those with him. I bet you what you like he
came out smoking."
It was certain that he had been to Eton and to Oxford, and was member of
two good clubs. He was extremely rich, and he was by profession, said
Chevenix, a prince. He had no territory, and was not apparently scheming
to get any, either of his own or other people's. Nobody at the Foreign
Office believed that he corresponded with any intransigent; he used to go
there often and exchange urbane gossip with under-secretaries. He lodged
in Duke Street, gave dinner-parties at the Bachelors, had a large
visiting-list, and was, as they say, always "about.
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