“When he's in luck, sir,” said the Colonel. “Let him always have the winning horse to ride, and I don't say he 'll lose the saddle; but Maraffi would win on a donkey.”
“Is he a Russian?” asked one.
“No, sir, he 's worse; he 's a Greek. I know everything about him. His mother was a Finlander, and the father a Cephalonian. I don't think Satan himself would ask a better parentage.”
“What luck! By Jove! I never saw such luck!” said a voice from within the door. “Onslow has no chance with him.”
“Nor will you, sir, if you persist in expressing your opinion in English,” said Haggerstone. “Maraffi speaks every language, plays every game, and knows the use of every weapon, from a jereed to a Joe Manton.”
“I 'll not test his abilities at any of them,” said the other, laughing.
“Per Baccho! there goes something new,” said a young Italian, from the window that looked into the street. “Who's she?”
“Diantre!” said the old Duc de Parivaux. “That is something very exquisite, indeed. She was splashed by that carriage that passed, and I just saw her foot.”
“She's the prima donna from Milan.”
“She 's the Cipriani. I know her figure perfectly.”