I
took but the time to whisper Mr. Romaine in the ear: 'Here is
another tableau for you!' at which he looked at me a moment with a
kind of pathos, as who should say, 'Don't hit a man when he's
down.' Then I transferred my eyes to my enemy.
He had his hat on, a little on one side: it was a very tall hat,
raked extremely, and had a narrow curling brim. His hair was all
curled out in masses like an Italian mountebank--a most
unpardonable fashion. He sported a huge tippeted overcoat of
frieze, such as watchmen wear, only the inside was lined with
costly furs, and he kept it half open to display the exquisite
linen, the many-coloured waistcoat, and the profuse jewellery of
watch-chains and brooches underneath. The leg and the ankle were
turned to a miracle. It is out of the question that I should deny
the resemblance altogether, since it has been remarked by so many
different persons whom I cannot reasonably accuse of a conspiracy.
As a matter of fact, I saw little of it and confessed to nothing.
Certainly he was what some might call handsome, of a pictorial,
exuberant style of beauty, all attitude, profile, and impudence: a
man whom I could see in fancy parade on the grand stand at a race-
meeting or swagger in Piccadilly, staring down the women, and
stared at himself with admiration by the coal-porters.
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