A French Clock On The Mantel-Piece, Framed Of Brass And Crystal, Which
Betrayed Its Inner Structure As The Transparent Sides Of Some Insects
Betray Their Vital Processes, Struck Ten With The Mellow And Lingering
Clangor Of A Distant Cathedral Bell. A Gentleman, Who Was Seated In
Front Of The Fire Reading A Newspaper, Looked Up At The Clock To See
What Hour It Was, To Save Himself The Trouble Of Counting The Slow,
Musical Strokes. The Eyes He Raised Were Light Gray, With A Blue Glint
Of Steel In Them, Shaded By Lashes As Black As Jet. The Hair Was Also
As Black As Hair Can Be, And Was Parted Near The Middle Of His
Forehead. It Was Inclined To Curl, But Had Not The Length Required By
This Inclination. The Dark Brown Mustache Was The Only Ornament The
Razor Had Spared On The Wholesome Face, The Outline Of Which Was Clear
And Keen. The Face Suited The Hands--It Had The Refinement And
Gentleness Of One Delicately Bred, And The Vigorous Lines And Color Of
One Equally At Home In Field And Court; And The Hands Had The Firm,
Hard Symmetry Which Showed They Had Done No Work, And The Bronze Tinge
Which Is The Imprint Wherewith Sky And Air Mark Their Lovers. His
Clothes Were Of The Fashion Seen In The Front Windows Of The
Knickerbocker Club In The Spring Of The Year 187-, And Were Worn As
Easily As A Self-Respecting Bird Wears His Feathers. He Seemed, In
Short, One Of Those Fortunate Natures, Who, However Born, Are Always
Bred Well, And Come By Prescription To Most Of The Good Things The
World Can Give.
He Sat In A Room Marked, Like Himself, With A Kind Of Serious
Elegance--One Of Those Apartments Which Seem To Fit The Person Like A
More Perfect Dress. All Around The Walls Ran Dwarf Book-Cases Of Carved
Oak, Filled With Volumes Bound In Every Soft Shade Of Brown And Tawny
