Jimmy Clynesworth was about thirty years of age; a little younger than
Lawrence Faversham, a little older than Mark Driver. In height he was
between them, a little above the average; not a tall man, certainly not
short, well built, but not noticeably broad-shouldered, and wearing
this afternoon a rough, darkish tweed suit, fitting him rather loosely.
In fact, you could not imagine Jimmy tightly buttoned up or putting on
an uncomfortably high collar, or doing anything solely for the sake of
appearances.

He had a somewhat round face, with straight dark hair and an almost
downy-looking moustache, which barely hid his lips, although it was not
brushed upwards in the mode of the moment. His eyes were rather far
apart and he was characterized by an appearance of perfect health and
equability of temperament.

"Hullo, Carrissima!" he exclaimed, coming forward to the door with his
hand outstretched, "what a stroke of luck!"

"I wanted to see Sybil," she explained.

"She has gone to the Ramsbottoms," said Jimmy. "Old Lady Ramsbottom
was taken ill. She sent for Sybil yesterday, as people do when they're
seedy, you know. Won't you come in?" he added.

"No, thank you, Jimmy. I mustn't stay," returned Carrissima.

"Now, that's sheer conventionality," he insisted. "You would really
like to come in and have a talk, but for the melancholy reason that I'm
alone, you're afraid."