Without its being remarkable, he had what one calls a good face,
somewhat aquiline in character, with a refined forehead and nose.

His cheeks were shaved, and his whitening beard and moustache
were worn somewhat after the fashion of Charles Dickens. This
gave a slight touch of severity to a face that was full of quiet
strength.

Passing the time of day to each other, we were soon in
conversation, I asking him this and that question about the
neighbouring country-side, of which I gathered he was an old
inhabitant.

"Yes," he said presently, "I was the first to put stick or
stone on Whortleberry Common yonder. Fifteen years ago I built
my own wood cottage there, and now I'm rebuilding it of good
Surrey stone."

"Do you mean that you are building it yourself, with your own
hands, no one to help you?" I asked.

"Not so much as to carry a pail of water," he replied. "I'm
my own contractor, my own carpenter, and my own bricklayer, and I
shall be sixty-seven come Michaelmas," he added, by no means
irrelevantly.

There was pride in his voice,--pardonable pride, I thought, for
who of us would not be proud to be able to build his own house
from floor to chimney?