gentleman; but he deliberately looked at the count and his lordship,
as if studying _what_ rather than _who_ they were. In spite of the red
night-cap, and a flowered dressing-gown, Mr. 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 look 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; only one nobleman in Ireland, it is said, has 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.

The count wrote the name for him, but observed, that "he had asserted
only that a few of these dogs remained in the possession of that
nobleman; he could not answer for it that they were _to be had_."