can none of us resist. Here, too,
his unusual command of the English language necessarily helps him. I
had often heard of the extraordinary aptitude which many Italians show
in mastering our strong, hard, Northern speech; but, until I saw Count
Fosco, I had never supposed it possible that any foreigner could have
spoken English as he speaks it. There are times when it is almost
impossible to detect, by his accent that he is not a countryman of our
own, and as for fluency, there are very few born Englishmen who can
talk with as few stoppages and repetitions as the Count. He may
construct his sentences more or less in the foreign way, but I have
never yet heard him use a wrong expression, or hesitate for a moment in
his choice of a word.

All the smallest characteristics of this strange man have something
strikingly original and perplexingly contradictory in them. Fat as he
is and old as he is, his movements are astonishingly light and easy.
He is as noiseless in a room as any of us women, and more than that,
with all his look of unmistakable mental firmness and power, he is as
nervously sensitive as the weakest of us. He starts at chance noises
as inveterately as Laura herself. He winced and shuddered yesterday,
when Sir Percival beat one of the spaniels, so that I felt ashamed of
my own want of tenderness and sensibility by comparison with the Count.

The relation of this last incident reminds me of one of his most
curious peculiarities, which I have not yet mentioned--his
extraordinary fondness for pet animals.

Some of these he has left on the Continent, but he has brought with him
to this house a cockatoo, two canary-birds, and a whole family of white
mice. He attends to all the necessities of these strange favourites
himself, and he has taught the creatures to be surprisingly fond of him
and familiar with him. The cockatoo, a most vicious and treacherous
bird towards every one else, absolutely seems to love him. When he
lets it out of its cage, it hops on to his knee, and claws its way up
his great big body, and rubs its top-knot against his sallow double
chin in the most caressing manner imaginable. He has only to set the
doors of the canaries' cages open, and to call them, and the pretty
little cleverly trained creatures perch fearlessly on his hand, mount
his fat outstretched fingers one by one, when he tells them to "go
upstairs," and sing together as if they would burst their throats with
delight