y handsome young
man. That Winthrop should have called him operatic was perhaps
inevitable. He wore a short black cloak, an end of which was tossed over
one shoulder after the approved manner of the operatic young gentleman
when about to begin, under the balcony of his lady-love, a serenade; on
his head was a picturesque sombrero, and he carried, or rather
flourished, a slender cane, which might have been a rapier; these
properties, together with his meridional eyes, his gestures, and the
slight tendency to attitude visible in his graceful movements, made him
much like the ideal young Tenor of the Italian stage, as he comes down
to the foot-lights to sing in deepest confidence, to the sympathetic
audience, of his loves and his woes.

That the ideal young Tenor has often encountered wide-spreading
admiration, no one would venture to deny. Still, there have been, now
and then, those among his audiences who have not altogether shared this
feeling. They have generally been men; not infrequently they have been
men of a somewhat lighter complexion, with visual orbs paler, perhaps,
and not so expressive; a grace in attitude less evident. Evert Winthrop
cared nothing for Tenors, real or imitative. But he was a man made with
more pretensions to strength than to sinuousness; he had no gestures;
his complexion, where not bronzed by exposure, was fair; his eyes were
light. They were gray eyes, with, for the most part, a calm expression.
But they easily became keen, and they could, upon occasion, become
stern. He opposed a short, thick, brown beard to Manuel's pointed
mustache, and thick, straight hair, closely cut, of the true American
brown, to the little luxuriant rings, blue-black in color, short also,
but curling in spite of shortness, which the breeze stirred slightly on
the head of the handsome young Floridian as he stood, sombrero in hand,
beside Garda Thorne.

Manuel was not another Torres; he was an American, and spoke English
perfectly. Upon this occasion, after his introduction, he offered to
the northerner with courtesy several well-turned sentences as the
beginning of an acquaintance, and then they all walked on together up
the old road.

"I believe we have now finished our little tour, Miss Garda, have we
not?" said the Doctor, in a cheerful voice. Though very tired, he was
walking onward with his usual trim step, his toes well turned out, his
shoulders thrown back, his head erect, but having no perception of the