‘Montesma is in Paris,’ said Mr. Sampayo, the dark gentleman; ’I dined last week with him at the Continental.’

Mr. Smithson’s complexion faded curiously, and a leaden darkness came over his countenance, as of a man whose heart and lungs suddenly refuse their office.  But in a few moments he was smiling feebly.

‘Indeed!  I thought he was played out years ago.’

’A man of that kind is never played out.  Don Gomez de Montesma is as clever as Satan, as handsome as Apollo, and he bears one of the oldest names in Castile.  Such a man will always come to the front. C’est un rastaquouere mais rastaquouere de bon genre.  You knew him intimately la bas, I believe?’

‘In Cuba; yes, we were pretty good friends once.’

‘And were useful to each other, no doubt,’ said Mr. Sampayo, pleasantly.  ‘Was that Argentiferous Copper Company in sixty-four yours or his?’

‘There were a good many people concerned in it.’

’No doubt; it takes a good many people to work that kind of thing, but I fancy you and Montesma were about the only two who came out of it pleasantly.  And he and you did a little in the shipping line, didn’t you—­African produce?  However, that’s an old song.  You have had so many good things since then.’

‘Did Montesma talk of coming to London?’

’He did not talk about it; but he would hardly go back to the tropics without having a look round on both sides of the Channel.  He was always fond of society, pretty women, dancing, and amusements of all kinds.  I have no doubt we shall see him here before the end of the season.’

Mr. Smithson pursued the subject no further He turned to Lesbia, who had been curiously interested in this little bit of conversation—­interested first because Smithson had seemed agitated by the mention of the Spaniard’s name; secondly, because of the description of the man, which had a romantic sound.  The very word tropic suggested a romance.  And Lesbia, whose mind was jaded by the monotony of a London season, the threadbare fabric of society conversation, kindled at any image which appealed to her fancy.

Clever as Satan, handsome as Apollo, scion of an old Castilian family, fresh from the tropics.  Her imagination dwelt upon the ideas which these words had conjured up.

Three days after this she was at the opera with her chaperon, her lover in attendance as usual.  The opera was “Faust,” with Nillson as Marguerite.  After the performance they were to drive down to Twickenham on Mr. Smithson’s drag, and to dance and sup at the Orleans.  The last ball of the season was on this evening; and Lesbia had been persuaded that it was to be a particular recherche ball, and that only the very nicest people were to be present.  At any rate, the drive under the light of a July moon would be delicious; and if they did not like the people they found there they could eat their supper and come away immediately after, as Lady Kirkbank remarked philosophically.