A shamelessly camp bachelor

From Trying to Please by John Julius Norwich.  Page 218. 

Our new boss, Sir Moore Crosthwaite, was a joy. A shamelessly camp bachelor, he was formidably intelligent, with exquisite French and a wicked sense of humor. The Lebanese, though finding his name impossible to pronounce, immediately took him to their hearts, particularly after the first large and lavish dinner party he attended. It was in a huge marble palace in the quartier Sursock—the smartest district in Beirut—and its principal reception room was furnished at its center with a small ornamental pool, of which the surface was covered in rose petals. As Moore left the buffet table, carrying in each hand a plate piled high with Arabic delicacies, he walked straight in. A moment later there he was in his dinner jacket, sitting on the edge of the pool with his feet in the water, the two plates still in his hands, not one crumb having fallen off either of them to the floor. The company was spellbound. “Ah, vous avez vu Sir Moore, comme il a gardé son sang-froid et n’a rien laissé tomber? Mais vraiment, quel style. . . .”

("Did you see Sir Moore, how he kept his sang-froid and didn’t drop anything? There’s style for you. . . .")