“In conversation he would certainly give this idea, but not in fact. He is marvellously adroit in all his dealings with the authorities, and in nothing is he more subtle than in the advantage he takes of his own immense conceit. He invariably makes it appear that vanity is his weak point; or, as he phrases it himself, 'I always show my adversary so much of my hand as will mislead him.'”
“And is he really as deep as all this would imply?”
“Very deep for an Englishman; fully able to cope with the cunningest of his own people, but a child amongst ours, Maitland.”
Maitland laughed scornfully as he said, “For the real work of life all your craft avails little. No man ever cut his way through a wood with a penknife, were it ever so sharp.”
“The Count M'Caskey, Eccellenza, desires to know if you receive?” said Caffarelli's servant, in a low tone.
“Yes, certainly; but do not admit any one else.”
Very significant—but very differently significant—were the looks that passed between Maitland and Caffarelli in the brief interval before M'Caskey entered. At last the door was flung wide, and the distinguished Major appeared in full evening dress, one side of his coat a blaze of stars and crosses, while in front of his cravat he wore the ribbon and collar of some very showy order. Nothing could be easier than his entrée; nothing less embarrassed than his salutation to each in turn, as, throwing his white gloves into his hat, he drew over to the table, and began to search for an unused wine-glass.
“Here is a glass,” said Caffarelli. “What will you drink? This is Bordeaux, and this is some sort of Hock; this is Moselle.”
“Hand me the sherry; I am chilly. I have been chilly all day, and went out to dine against my will.”