She wondered how long the two men were going to prose about mines and
shares, in those subdued half-mysterious voices, telling each other
occult facts in half-expressed phrases, utterly dark to the outside
world; but, while she was languidly wondering, a change in her lover's
manner startled her into keenest curiosity.
'Montesma is in Paris,' said Mr. Sampayo, the dark gentleman; 'I dined
last week with him at the Continental.'
Mr. Smithson's complexion faded curiously, and a leaden darkness came
over his countenance, as of a man whose heart and lungs suddenly refuse
their office. But in a few moments he was smiling feebly.
'Indeed! I thought he was played out years ago.'
'A man of that kind is never played out. Don Gomez de Montesma is as
clever as Satan, as handsome as Apollo, and he bears one of the oldest
names in Castile. Such a man will always come to the front. _C'est un
rastaquouere mais rastaquouere de bon genre_. You knew him intimately
_la bas_, I believe?'
'In Cuba; yes, we were pretty good friends once.
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