her husband. She is a
plump, round-faced little body, and was tidily dressed in a black silk
of quite modern style with just a trace of elegance, and a berthe of
fine old lace which made me break the tenth commandment every time I
looked at her. She was evidently on the best of terms with herself,
and stood in no awe of anybody, and least of all of the Cynic, whom she
regarded with a half-affectionate, half-contemptuous air. She had a
way of tossing her head and pursing her lips when he was more than
usually aggressive that obviously amused him. I had soon found out
that they were old antagonists.

The Cynic himself puzzled me. I scarcely dared to look at him very
closely, for I had the feeling that none of my movements escaped his
notice, and I had not been able to decide whether his age was thirty or
fifty. He is of average height and build, and was somewhat carelessly
dressed, I thought. His dinner jacket seemed rather loose, and his
starched shirt was decidedly crumpled. I wondered who looked after his
menage.

His hands are clean and shapely, and he knows where to put them, which
is generally an indication of good breeding and always of a lack of
self-consciousness, and from their condition I judged that he earned
his bread in the sweat of his brain rather than of his brow.

As to his face--well, I liked it. It is dark, but frank and open, and
he has a good mouth, which can be seen, because he is clean shaven, and
his teeth are also good. But then in these degenerate days anyone who
has attained middle life may have good teeth: it is all a matter of
money.

I think it is the eyes that make the face, however. They are deep grey
and remarkably luminous, and on this occasion they simply bubbled over
with mischievousness. His smile was never very pronounced, and always
more or less satirical, but his eyes flashed and sparkled when he was
roused, though they had looked kindly and even plaintive when he
arrived, and before he was warmed. He is the sort of man who can do
all his talking with his eyes.

A high forehead is surmounted by a mass of hair--once black, but
rapidly turning grey--which he evidently treats as of no importance,
for it lies, as the children say, "anyhow." But how old he is--I give
it up.

He passed his hand through his hair now, with a quick involuntary
movement, as he turned to the squire.

"You may bracket the new woman and the woman with a mission together,
but you can neve