And in he came, a well-built, lazy gentleman of forty, swinging gracefully on a pair o’ legs no man need take shame in; ruffles on cuff and stock, hair perfumed, powdered, and rolled twice in French puffs, and on his hand a brilliant that sparkled purest fire.  Under one arm he bore his gold-edged hat, and as he strolled forward, peering coolly about him through his quizzing glass, I thought I had never seen such graceful assurance, nor such insolently handsome eyes, marred by the faint shadows of dissipation.

Sir Lupus nodded a welcome and blew a great cloud of smoke into the air.

“Ah,” observed Sir George, languidly, “Vesuvius in irruption?”

“How de do,” said Sir Lupus, suspiciously.

“The mountain welcomes Mohammed,” commented Sir George.  “Mohammed greets the mountain!  How de do, Sir Lupus!  Ah!” He turned gracefully towards me, bowing.  “Pray present me, Sir Lupus.”

“My cousin, George Ormond,” said Sir Lupus.  “George first, George second,” he added, with a sneer.

“No relation to George III., I trust, sir?” inquired Sir George, anxiously, offering his cool, well-kept hand.

“No,” said I, laughing at his serious countenance and returning his clasp firmly.

“That’s well, that’s well,” murmured Sir George, apparently vastly relieved, and invited me to take snuff with him.

We had scarcely exchanged a civil word or two ere the servant announced Captain Walter Butler, and I turned curiously, to see a dark, graceful young man enter and stand for a moment staring haughtily straight at me.  He wore a very elegant black-and-orange uniform, without gorget; a black military cloak hung from his shoulders, caught up in his sword-knot.

With a quick movement he raised his hand and removed his officer’s hat, and I saw on his gauntlets of fine doeskin the Ormond arms, heavily embroidered.  Instantly the affectation displeased me.

“Come to the mountain, brother prophet,” said Sir George, waving his hand towards the seated patroon.  He came, lightly as a panther, his dark, well-cut features softening a trifle; and I thought him handsome in his uniform, wearing his own dark hair unpowdered, tied in a short queue; but when he turned full face to greet Sir George Covert, I was astonished to see the cruelty in his almost perfect features, which were smooth as a woman’s, and lighted by a pair of clear, dark-golden eyes.

Ah, those wonderful eyes of Walter Butler—­ever-changing eyes, now almost black, glimmering with ardent fire, now veiled and amber, now suddenly a shallow yellow, round, staring, blank as the eyes of a caged eagle; and, still again, piercing, glittering, narrowing to a slit.  Terrible mad eyes, that I have never forgotten—­never, never can forget.

As Sir Lupus named me, Walter Butler dropped Sir George’s hand and grasped mine, too eagerly to please me.

“Ormond and Ormond-Butler need no friends to recommend them each to the other,” he said.  And straightway fell a-talking of the greatness of the Arrans and the Ormonds, and of that duke who, attainted, fled to France to save his neck.