your lights, and this afternoon we had no opportunity
whatever for a quiet talk. No--I won't drink anything
before dinner, but I'll light a cigar. I want to say
to you, Thorpe," he concluded, as he seated himself
"that I think what you've done is very wonderful.
The Marquis thinks so too--but I shouldn't like to swear
that he understands much about it."

The implication that the speaker did understand remained
in the air like a tangible object. Thorpe took a chair,
and the two men exchanged a silent, intent look.
Their faces, dusky red on the side of the glow from the fire,
pallid where the electric light fell slantwise upon them
from above, had for a moment a mysterious something
in common. Then the tension of the glance was relaxed--and
on the instant no two men in London looked less alike.

Lord Plowden was familiarly spoken of as a handsome man.
Thorpe had even heard him called the handsomest man in
England--though this seemed in all likelihood an exaggeration.
But handsome he undoubtedly was--tall without suggesting
the thought of height to the observer, erect yet graceful,
powerfully built, while preserving the effect of slenderness.
His face in repose had the outline of the more youthful
guardsman-type--regular, finely-cut, impassive to hardness.
When he talked, or followed with interest the talk
of others, it revealed almost an excess of animation.
Then one noted the flashing subtlety of his glance,
the swift facility of his smile and comprehending brows,
and saw that it was not the guardsman face at all.