"I was never addicted to work,
'Twas never the way o' the Gradys;
But I'd make a most excellent Turk,
For I'm fond of tobacco and ladies."

And with the song still in the air, the singer came through the shadow
of the porch and stood in the doorway--a man tall and well set-up, in
black riding-clothes, cap in hand, who saluted the two with his crop,
and as he did so a jewel gleamed in the handle, showing him to be
something of a dandy.

Standing in the doorway, the lights from the candelabra on his face and
the sunset at his back, one noticed on the instant his great freedom of
movement as of one good with the foils. His hair was dark, and his eyes,
deep-set and luminous as a child's, looked straight at the world through
lashes so long they made a mistiness of shadow. He had the pallor of
the Spanish Creole found frequently in the south of Ireland folk. His
mouth was straight, the upper lip a bit fuller than the under one, as is
the case when intellect predominates, and his hair was of a singularly
dull and wavy black. But set these and many more things down, and the
charm of him has not been written at all, for the words give no hint of
his bearing, his impertinent and charming familiarity, the surety of
touch, the right word, and the ready concession.

"I thought the evening was beautiful till I saw you, madam," he said,
with a sweeping salute. "I kiss your hand--with emotion." There was a
slight pause here as he regarded Mrs. Ravenel with open admiration. "And
thank you for the beautiful verses, asking that at some soon date you
send more of the flowers of your imagination to bind around the gloomy
brow of Dermott McDermott."