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What good chance?" returned the newcomer, rushing to him and kissing him on both cheeks, to the British horror of Sir Midas, who had followed. "Ah, but you are perfect!" he added, kissing his fingers in admiration of McFeckless's Florentine dress. "But you? what is this ravishing costume?" asked McFeckless, with a pang of jealousy. "You are god-like."
The words of the great Poet-King rose to McFeckless's lips: "Her nose is as a tower that looketh toward Damascus." He hesitated a moment, torn with love and jealousy, and then presented his friend. "You will fall in love with her and then you will fall also by my hand," he hissed in his rival's ear, and fled tumultuously.
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