The room was obviously a man's den. The leather-covered chairs,
the big and well-filled bookcase which covered one wall of the
room, the huge, solid-oak writing-desk, covered with books and
half-finished manuscripts, spoke unmistakably of its owner's
occupation.

After he had changed his shoes, he refilled his pipe, walked over
to the fire, and stood looking down into its glowing heart.

He was a man a little above medium height, slimly built, with a
breadth of shoulder which was suggestive of the athlete. He had
indeed rowed 4 in his boat, and had fought his way into the
semi-finals of the amateur boxing championship of England. His
face was strong, lean, yet well-moulded. His eyes were grey and
deep, his eyebrows straight and a little forbidding. The
clean-shaven mouth was big and generous, and the healthy tan of
his cheek told of a life lived in the open air.

There was nothing of the recluse or the student in his appearance.
He was in fact a typical, healthy-looking Britisher, very much
like any other man of his class whom one would meet in the
mess-room of the British army, in the wardrooms of the fleet, or
in the far-off posts of the Empire, where the administrative cogs
of the great machine are to be seen at work.

There was a little tap at the door, and before he could say "Come
in" it was pushed open and Grace Lexman entered.

If you described her as brave and sweet you might secure from that