We chaps who write have magic carpets.

Whiz!

A marble balcony, overlooking the sea, which shimmered under the light
of the summer moon. Lord Henry Monckton and Kitty leaned over the
baluster and silently watched the rush of the rollers landward and the
slink of them back to the sea.

For three days Kitty had wondered whether she liked or disliked Lord
Monckton. The fact that he was the man who had bumped into Thomas that
night at the theater may have had something to do with her doddering.
He might at least have helped Thomas in recovering his hat. Dark,
full-bearded, slender, with hands like a woman's, quiet of manner yet
affable, he was the most picturesque person at the cottage. But there
was always something smoldering in those sleepy eyes of his that
suggested to Kitty a mockery. It was not that recognizable mockery of
all those visiting Englishmen who held themselves complacently superior
to their generous American hosts. It was as though he were silently
laughing at all he saw, at all which happened about him, as if he stood
in the midst of some huge joke which he alone was capable of
understanding: so Kitty weighed him.

He did not seem to care particularly for women; he never hovered about
them, offering little favors and courtesies; rather, he let them come
to him. Nor did he care for dancing. But he was always ready to make
up a table at bridge; and a shrewd capable player he was, too.