Vancouver from
wearing an expression of fastidious scorn as he mounted the steps and
pulled the polished German silver handle of the door-bell. The curl on his
lip gave way to a smile of joyous cordiality as he was ushered into the
presence of the owner of the house.
"Indeed, I'm glad to see you, Mr. Vancouver," said his host, whose
extremely Celtic appearance was not belied by unctuous modulation of his
voice, and the pleasant roll of his softly aspirated consonants.
This great man was no other than Mr. Patrick Ballymolloy. He received
Vancouver in his study, which was handsomely furnished with bright green
wall-paper, a sideboard on which stood a number of decanters and glasses,
several leather easy-chairs, and a green china spittoon.
In personal appearance, Mr. Patrick Ballymolloy was vastly more striking
than attractive. He was both corpulent and truculent, and his hands and
feet were of a size and thickness calculated to crush a paving-stone at a
step, or to fell an ox at a blow.
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