The Portuguese nobleman was introduced. He had attained to a degree of familiarity in the adjutant’s household that permitted of his being received without ceremony there at that breakfast-table spread in the open. 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. But here--to drink your lady’s health, and yours, Miss Armytage.” With a graceful flourish of his glass he pledged them both and sipped delicately, then took the chair that O’Moy was proffering. “Good news, I hear, General. Antonio de Souza’s removal from the Government is already bearing fruit. The mills in the valley of the Mondego are being effectively destroyed at last.” “Ye’re very well informed,” grunted O’Moy, who himself had but received the news. “As well informed, indeed, as I am myself.” There was a note almost of suspicion in the words, and he was vexed that matters which it was desirable be kept screened as much as possible from general knowledge should so soon be put abroad. “Naturally, and with reason,” was the answer, delivered with a rueful smile. “Am I not interested? Is not some of my property in question?” Samoval sighed. “But I bow to the necessities of war. At least it cannot be said of me, as was said of those whose interests Souza represented, that I put private considerations above public duty--that is the phrase, I think. The individual must suffer that the nation may triumph. A Roman maxim, my dear General.” “And a British one,” said O’Moy, to whom Britain was a second Rome. “Oh, admitted,” replied the amiable Samoval. “You proved it by your uncompromising firmness in the affair of Tavora.”