He recognised Lord Montacute, and bowed with
much ceremony, though with a certain grace and bearing. He was a man
whose wrinkled visage strangely contrasted with his still gallant
figure, scrupulously attired; a blue frock-coat with a ribboned
button-hole, a well-turned boot, hat a little too hidalgoish, but
quite new. There was something respectable and substantial about him,
notwithstanding his moustaches, and a carriage a degree too debonair for
his years. He did not look like a carbonaro or a refugee. Who could he
be?
Tancred had asked himself this question before. This was not the first
time that he had encountered this distinguished foreigner since their
first meeting. Tancred had seen him before this, quitting the door of
Lord Bertie and Bellair; had stumbled over him before this, more than
once, on the staircase; once, to his surprise, had met him as he entered
the personal saloon of Lady Bertie. As it was evident, on that occasion,
that his visit had been to the lady, it was thought necessary to say
something, and he had been called the Baron, and described, though in a
somewhat flurried and excited manner, as a particular friend, a person
in whom they had the most entire confidence, who had been most kind to
them at Paris, putting them in the way of buying the rarest china for
nothing, and who was now over here on some private business of his own,
of great importance.
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