ame from that very class?

And his admiration for an extremely good-looking person, even of his
own sex, even a scavenger or a dustman, was almost snobbish. It was
like a well-bred, well-educated Englishman's frank fondness for a
noble lord.

And next to physical beauty he admired great physical strength; and
I sometimes think that it is to my possession of this single gift I
owe some of the warm friendship I feel sure he always bore me; for
though he was a strong man, and topped me by an inch or two, I was
stronger still--as a cart-horse is stronger than a racer.

For his own personal appearance, of which he always took the
greatest care, he had a naive admiration that he did not disguise.
His candor in this respect was comical; yet, strange to say, he was
really without vanity.

When he was in the Guards he would tell you quite frankly he was
"the handsomest chap in all the Household Brigade, bar three"--just
as he would tell you he was twenty last birthday. And the fun of it
was that the three exceptions he was good enough to make, splendid
fellows as they were, seemed as satyrs to Hyperion when compared
with Barty Josselin. One (F. Pepys) was three or four inches taller,
it is true, being six foot seven or eight--a giant. The two others
had immense whiskers, which Barty openly envied, but could not
emulate--and the mustache with which he would have been quite
decently endowed in time was not permitted in an infantry regiment.

To return to the Pension Brossard, and Barty the school-boy:

He adored Monsieur Merovee because he was big and strong and
handsome--not because he was one of the best fellows that ever
lived. He disliked Monsieur Durosier, whom we were all so fond of,
because he had a slight squint and a receding chin.

As for the Anglophobe, Monsieur Dumollard, who made no secret of his
hatred and contempt for perfidious Albion....

"Dis donc, Josselin!" says Maurice, in English or French, as the
case might be, "why don't you like Monsieur Dumollard? Eh? He always
favors you more than any other chap in the school. I suppose you
dislike him because he hates the English so, and always runs them
down before you and me--and says they're all traitors and sneaks and
hypocrites and bullies and cowards and liars and snobs; and we can't
answer him, because he's the mathematical master!"

"Ma foi, non!" says Josselin--"c'est pas pour ca!"

"Pourquoi, alors?" says Maurice (that's me).

"C'est parce qu'il