"Head of the family!" frowned Aunt Maria. "Because he is a man? So much
the more reason for his being the tail of it. My dear, you are your own
head."

"Ah--well. What is the use of all _that_?" asked Clara, smiling away those
views. "I have no money, and he has."

"Well, we will see," persisted Aunt Maria. "I just told you so. We will
see."

The two women had scarcely left the roof of the house and got themselves
down to the large, breezy, sparsely furnished parlor, ere the lazy,
dawdling Indian servant announced Lieutenant Thurstane.

Lieutenant Ralph Thurstane was a tall, full-chested, finely-limbed
gladiator of perhaps four and twenty. Broad forehead; nose straight and
high enough; lower part of the face oval; on the whole a good physiognomy.
Cheek bones rather strongly marked; a hint of Scandinavian ancestry
supported by his name. Thurstane is evidently Thor's stone or altar;
forefathers priests of the god of thunder. His complexion was so reddened
and darkened by sunburn that his untanned forehead looked unnaturally
white and delicate. His yellow, one might almost call it golden hair, was
wavy enough to be handsome. Eyes quite remarkable; blue, but of a very
dark blue, like the coloring which is sometimes given to steel; so dark
indeed that one's first impression was that they were black. Their natural
expression seemed to be gentle, pathetic, and almost imploring; but
authority, responsibility, hardship, and danger had given them an ability
to be stern. In his whole face, young as he was, there was already the
look of the veteran, that calm reminiscence of trials endured, that
preparedness for trials to come. In fine, taking figure, physiognomy, and