a horsey way, and he walked with bow-legs, as though he spent most of his time in the saddle. He alone used scented pomade upon his neat smooth hair. His chief distinction was a greatcoat he wore, with a scarlet lining; and Warren, whose memory for names was defective, could only recall him by that peculiarity. But it was understood that he knew duchesses in fashionable streets, and occasionally he dined with them in solemn splendour.
Clayson had a vinous nose and a tedious habit of saying brilliant things. With his twinkling eyes, red cheeks, and fair, pointed beard, he looked exactly like a Franz Hals; but he was dressed like the caricature of a Frenchman in a comic paper. He spoke English with a Parisian accent.
Miss Boyd was beginning to tear him gaily limb from limb, when the door was flung open, and a large person entered. He threw off his cloak with a dramatic gesture.
“Marie, disembarrass me of this coat of frieze. Hang my sombrero upon a convenient peg.”
He spoke execrable French, but there was a grandiloquence about his vocabulary which set everyone laughing.
“Here is somebody I don’t know,” said Susie.
“But I do, at least, by sight,” answered Burdon. He leaned over to Dr. Porhoët, who was sitting opposite, quietly eating his dinner and enjoying the nonsense which everyone talked. “Is not that your magician?”
“Oliver Haddo,” said Dr. Porhoët, with a little nod of amusement.
