“These poor roses of Portugal to their sister from England,” said his softly caressing tenor voice.
“Ye’re a poet,” said O’Moy tartly.
“Having found Castalia here,” said, the Count, “shall I not drink its limpid waters?”
“Not, I hope, while there’s an agreeable vintage of Port on the table. A morning whet, Samoval?” O’Moy invited him, taking up the decanter.
“Two fingers, then—no more. It is not my custom in the morning. But here—to drink your lady’s health, and yours, Miss Armytage.” With a graceful flourish of his glass he pledged them both and sipped delicately, then took the chair that O’Moy was proffering.
“Good news, I hear, General. Antonio de Souza’s removal from the Government is already bearing fruit. The mills in the valley of the Mondego are being effectively destroyed at last.”
“Ye’re very well informed,” grunted O’Moy, who himself had but received the news. “As well informed, indeed, as I am myself.” There was a note almost of suspicion in the words, and he was vexed that matters which it was desirable be kept screened as much as possible from general knowledge should so soon be put abroad.
“Naturally, and with reason,” was the answer, delivered with a rueful smile. “Am I not interested? Is not some of my property in question?” Samoval sighed. “But I bow to the necessities of war. At least it cannot be said of me, as was said of those whose interests Souza represented, that I put private considerations above public duty—that is the phrase, I think. The individual must suffer that the nation may triumph. A Roman maxim, my dear General.”
“And a British one,” said O’Moy, to whom Britain was a second Rome.
“Oh, admitted,” replied the amiable Samoval. “You proved it by your uncompromising firmness in the affair of Tavora.”