proceeding with a tolerant shrug. It will be remembered that he closed
his glasses with a smile--not a smile of amusement or of contempt--not
even a deep smile such as people wear in books. It was merely a smile,
and could not be construed into anything else by any physiognomist. The
wrinkles that made it were deeply marked, which suggested that Evasio Mon
had learnt to smile when he was quite young. He had, perhaps, been
taught.

And, after all, a man may as well show a smile to the world as a worried
look, or a mean look, or one of the countless casts of countenance that
are moulded by conceit and vanity. A smile is frequently misconstrued by
the simple-hearted into the outward sign of inward kindness. Many think
that it conciliates children and little dogs. But that which the many
think is usually wrong.

If Evasio Mon's face said anything at all, it warned the world that it
had to deal with a man of perfect self-control. And the man who controls
himself is usually able to control just so much of his surrounding world
as may suit his purpose.

There was something in the set of this man's eyes which suggested no easy
victory over self. For his eyes were close together. His hair was almost
red. His face was rather narrow and long. It was not the face of an
easy-going man as God had made it. But years had made it the face of a
man that nothing could rouse. He was of medium height, with rather narrow
shoulders, but upright and lithe. He was clean shaven and of a pleasant
ruddiness. His eyes were a bluish gray, and looked out upon the world
with a reflective attention through gold-rimmed eye-glasses, with which
he had a habit of amusing himself while talking, examining their
mechanism and the knot of the fine black cord with a bat-like air of