The back of the house had been the Alps for climbing, and the shrubs in front of it a Terai. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. Now, in her old place, she was doing her best thoroughly to enjoy a most indifferent dinner. Soon they came to treat Lucy almost as mother, pulling hard at her brown curls and laughing delightedly as they sprang back into their spiral shape. The uncanny directness of those gray eyes, the absence of diffidence, the beauty of the face in profile (full, it seemed a little too broad to make for perfect beauty), the mellow voice that came full and free, without hesitance, all combined to mark her as the most unusual young woman he had ever met. Soho! boys. “I am. “I can only be a few years older than you, and I have been married four years. I’ve had my time and lost my chances. ” Mr. Then instinct took over.
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