"Oh, there you are!" cried Frank, and he lifted his stick, and called
sharply to a large black and white bull-dog that paddled about on its
bow legs, saliva dripping from its huge jaws, looking in its
hideousness like something rare and exquisite from Japan. He dismissed
the porter and the carriage, which he had hailed with an arrogant wave
of his stick. He was tall and he was thin. His trousers were extremely
elegant, a light cloth, black and white check, hung on his legs in
graceful lines, and he wore tiny boots with light brown cloth tops.
The jacket and waistcoat were in dark brown cloth, and the odour of
the gardenia in his buttonhole contrasted with that of the sachet-
scented silk pocket-handkerchief which lay in his side pocket. His
throat showed white and healthy in the high collar tied with a white
silk cravat in a sailor's knot, fastened with a small diamond. His
hands were coarse and brown; he wore two rings, and a bracelet fell
out of his cuff when he dropped his arm. His chest was broad and full,
but the shoulders were too square; the coat was padded. There was
little that could be called Celtic in his face or voice, the admixture
of race was manifested in that dim blue stare, at once vague and wild,
which the eyes of the Celt so often exhibit. The nose was long, low,
and straight, the nostrils were cleanly marked, the mouth was
uncertain, the chin was uncertain, the face was long, deadly pale,
rather large, the forehead was high, receding at the temples. The hair
(now he removes his hat, for the air is heavy and hot, and the sun
falls fiercely on the pavement) is pale brown, and it waves thinly
over the high forehead, so expressive of a vague and ill-considered
idealism. Frank Escott was of Saxon origin on his father's side, but
the family had been in Ireland for the last two hundred years, and had
married into many Irish families that had at different times received
direct contributions of Celtic blood. Long residence in England had