He was a man of very
remarkable appearance, of about thirty-five. His features were of
perfect symmetry, and I may almost say, of perfect beauty. His
hair was the darkest I had ever seen, glossy and shining; his eyes
large, black, and melancholy; but that which most struck me was his
complexion. It might be called olive, it is true, but it was a
livid olive. He was dressed in the very first style of French
fashion. Around his neck was a massive gold chain, while upon his
fingers were large rings, in one of which was set a magnificent
ruby. Who can that man be? thought I; - Spaniard or Portuguese,
perhaps a Creole. I asked him an indifferent question in Spanish,
to which he forthwith replied in that language, but his accent
convinced me that he was neither Spaniard nor Portuguese.
"I presume I am speaking to an Englishman, sir?" said he, in as
good English as it was possible for one not an Englishman to speak.
Myself. - You know me to be an Englishman; but I should find some
difficulty in guessing to what country you belong.
Stranger. - May I take a seat?
Myself. - A singular question. Have you not as much right to sit in
the public apartment of an inn as myself?
