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Updated: June 14, 2025
A wise man had said of Cipriani de Lloseta that had he not been a Count he would have been a great musician. He had that singular facility with any instrument which is sometimes given to musical persons in recompense for voicelessness. The Count spoke like one who could sing, but his throat was delicate, and so the world lost a great singer.
He thought it was bad taste thus to turn the conversation upon a subject which could only be painful to Eve. He only thought of Eve, and therefore did not notice the patient endurance of the Count's face. De Lloseta was taking his soup with a slow concentration of his attention upon its flavour, as if trying not to hear the conversation. Mrs.
Agatha, who was in front, beneath them on the stairs, turned and looked up at her with a strange smile. She either did not heed the Count, or she undervalued his powers of observation. "You would undoubtedly have liked him," said the Spaniard. At the table there was considerable arranging of the seats, and finally De Lloseta was placed at one side with Mrs.
This was a hopelessly taciturn man, but Eve seemed to understand him. There was another letter unopened and addressed to Fitz. He took it up and opened it leisurely, after the manner of one who has all he wants and looks for nothing by post. Eve saw his face brighten with surprise. He read the letter through, and then he handed it to her. "Lloseta," he said, "is coming. He is in Barcelona."
She would have told who it was if I had let her. Two days later I sloped off here. Spain choked her off the old lady, I mean." Lloseta laughed, and the young man began to think that he had said something rude. "She did not know what a nice place it is," he added, with a transparency which did no harm. "Yes, you're right. The devil had something to do with my coming here.
Cipriani de Lloseta walked to the window and quietly drew down the blind. "So falls the curtain," he said, "on the little drama of my humble life." He turned and looked from one to the other with that sudden warmth of love which either of them seemed able to draw from him. "Some day," he said, "I will tell you you two the story, but not now."
The Count came into the room with a certain ease of manner subtly indicative of the fact that it was not the first time that he had visited it. He shook hands and waited until the clerk had closed the door. There was a copy of the month's Commentator on the table. De Lloseta took it up and opened it at the first page. "Who wrote that?" he asked, holding out the magazine.
The captain looked over his spectacles and saw Cipriani de Lloseta studying the numbers on the doors as he came down the quiet little street. The sight gave the old sailor rather a shock. He abandoned the study of Mr. Dickens and took off his spectacles. Then he scratched his head always an ominous sign.
Harrington's no friend of mine," said Captain Bontnor; and De Lloseta, who was looking out of the window, smiled somewhat grimly. "Perhaps," he said after a little pause, "perhaps you will allow me to claim the privilege which you deny to her?" "Yes," answered Captain Bontnor awkwardly; "yes, if you care to." "Thanks. I see Miss Challoner Eve coming. I count on your assistance."
The Count de Lloseta and John Craik were sitting together in the editorial room of the Commentator. It was a quiet room, with double windows and a permanent odour of tobacco smoke. An empty teacup stood on the table by John Craik's elbow. "Name of God!" Cipriani de Lloseta had ejaculated when he saw it. "At eleven o'clock in the morning!" "Must stir the brain up," was the reply.
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