Reynolds looked like a gentleman, an odd
gentleman--but still a gentleman.
As Count O'Halloran came into the room, and as his large dog attempted
to follow, the count's voice expressed: 'Say, shall I let him in, or
shut the door?'
'Oh, let him in, by all means, sir, if you please! I am fond of dogs;
and a finer one I never saw; pray, gentlemen, be seated,' said he--a
portion of the complacency inspired by the sight of the dog, diffusing
itself over his manner towards the master of so fine an animal, and
even extending to the master's companion, though in an inferior degree.
Whilst Mr. Reynolds stroked the dog, the count told him that 'the dog
was of a curious breed, now almost extinct--the Irish greyhound, of
which only one nobleman in Ireland, it is said, has now a few of the
species remaining in his possession--Now, lie down, Hannibal,' said the
count. 'Mr. Reynolds, we have taken the liberty, though strangers, of
waiting upon you--'
'I beg your pardon, sir,' interrupted Mr. Reynolds; 'but did I
understand you rightly, that a few of the same species are still to
be had from one nobleman in Ireland? pray, what is his name?' said he,
taking out his pencil.
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