Ambrose pulled himself together
and suppressing, as best he could, any appearance of aversion from the
caller who now presented himself, he sat back in his chair and prepared
to hear "the tale."
Count Florian was at that time some fifty-nine years of age, dark as an
Italian and not without trace of an Eastern origin. Though it was early
in the month of May, he still wore a light Inverness cape of an ancient
fashion, while his patent-leather boots and his silk hat shone with the
polish of a well-kept mirror. When he laughed, however, he showed
ferocious teeth, some capped with gold, and in his eyes was a fiery
light not always pleasant to behold.
"A chilly morning," he began. "You have no fire, I see."
"You find it so?" queried Ambrose. "Well, I thought it quite warm."
"Ah," said the count, "you were born, of course, in this detestable
country. Do not forget that where I live there are people who call the
climate hell," and he laughed sardonically, with a laugh quite
unpleasant to hear.
Ambrose did not like such talk, and showed his displeasure plainly.
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