Again Samoval stood still and looked at O’Moy. He found something in the bronzed, rugged face that was unusually sardonic. The blue eyes seemed to have become hard, and yet there were wrinkles about their corners suggestive of humour that might be mockery. The Count stiffened; but beyond that he preserved his outward calm whilst confessing that he did not understand Sir Terence’s meaning. “It’s this way,” said Sir Terence. “I’ve noticed that ye’re not looking so very well lately, Count.” “Really? You think that?” The words were mechanical. The dark eyes continued to scrutinise that bronzed face suspiciously. “I do, and it’s sorry I am to see it. But I know what it is. It’s this walking backwards and forwards between here and Bispo that’s doing the mischief. Better give it up, Count. Better not come toiling up here any more. It’s not good for your health. Why, man, ye’re as white as a ghost this minute.” He was indeed, having perceived at last the insult intended. To be denied the house at such a time was to checkmate his designs, to set a term upon his crafty and subtle espionage, precisely in the season when he hoped to reap its harvest. But his chagrin sprang not at all from that. His cold anger was purely personal. He was a gentleman--of the fine flower, as he would have described himself--of the nobility of Portugal; and that a probably upstart Irish soldier--himself, from Samoval’s point of view, a guest in that country--should deny him his house, and choose such terms of ill-considered jocularity in which to do it, was an affront beyond all endurance. For a moment passion blinded him, and it was only by an effort that he recovered and kept his self-control. But keep it he did. You may trust your practised duellist for that when he comes face to face with the necessity to demand satisfaction. And soon the mist of passion clearing from his keen wits, he sought swiftly for a means to fasten the quarrel upon Sir Terence in Sir Terence’s own coin of galling mockery. Instantly he found it. Indeed it was not very far to seek. O’Moy’s jealousy, which was almost a byword, as we know, had been apparent more than once to Samoval. Remembering it now, it discovered to him at once Sir Terence’s most vulnerable spot, and cunningly Samoval proceeded to gall him there. A smile spread gradually over his white face--a smile of immeasurable malice. “I am having a very interesting and instructive morning in this atmosphere of Irish boorishness,” said he. “First Captain Tremayne--” “Now don’t be after blaming old Ireland for Tremayne’s shortcomings. Tremayne’s just a clumsy mannered Englishman.” “I am glad to know there is a distinction. Indeed I might have perceived it for myself. In motives, of course, that distinction is great indeed, and I hope that I am not slow to discover it, and in your case to excuse it. I quite understand and even sympathise with your feelings, General.”