of his father's carriage--something. Something of his delivery--his
readiness.'

It was a remarkable thing that these ladies thought no man on earth like
their father, and always cited him as the example of a perfect gentleman,
and yet they buried him with one mind, and each mounted guard over his
sepulchre, to secure his ghost from an airing.

'He can walk, my dears, certainly, and talk--a little. Tete-a-tete, I do
not say. I should think there he would be--a stick! All you English
are. But what sort of a bow has he got, I ask you? How does he enter a
room? And, then his smile! his laugh! He laughs like a horse--
absolutely! There's no music in his smile. Oh! you should see a
Portuguese nobleman smile. O mio Deus! honeyed, my dears! But Evan has
it not. None of you English have. You go so.'

The Countess pressed a thumb and finger to the sides of her mouth, and
set her sisters laughing.

'I assure you, no better! not a bit! I faint in your society. I ask
myself--Where am I? Among what boors have I fallen? But Evan is no
worse than the rest of you; I acknowledge that. If he knew how to dress
his shoulders properly, and to direct his eyes--Oh! the eyes! you
should see how a Portuguese nobleman can use his eyes! Soul! my dears,
soul! Can any of you look the unutterable without being absurd! You
look so.'

And the Countess hung her jaw under heavily vacuous orbits, something as
a sheep might yawn.