still was clear; and as only his upper lip, decorated with a slight
silken and well-trimmed mustache, was unshaven, the contour of the face
added to the juvenility of his appearance by the rounded symmetry it
betrayed. His hair escaped from his hat in fair unchanged luxuriance.
And the nervous figure, agile as a panther's, though broad-shouldered and
deep-chested, denoted all the slightness and elasticity of twenty-five,
combined with the muscular power of forty. His dress was rather
fantastic,--too showy for the good taste which is habitual to the English
gentleman,--and there was a peculiarity in his gait, almost approaching
to a strut, which bespoke a desire of effect, a consciousness of personal
advantages, equally opposed to the mien and manner of Percival's usual
companions; yet withal, even the most fastidious would have hesitated to
apply to Gabriel Varney the epithet of "vulgar." Many turned to look
again, but it was not to remark the dress or the slight swagger; an
expression of reckless, sinister power in the countenance, something of
vigour and determination even in that very walk, foppish as it would have
been in most, made you sink all observation of the mere externals, in a
sentiment of curiosity towards the man himself. He seemed a somebody,--
not a somebody of conventional rank, but a somebody of personal
individuality; an artist, perhaps a poet, or a soldier in some foreign
service, but certainly a man whose name you would expect to have heard
of. Amongst the common mob of passengers he stood out in marked and
distinct relief.

"I feel at home in a crowd," said Varney. "Do you understand me?"

"I think so," answered Percival. "If ever I could become distinguished,
I, too, should feel at home in a crowd."

"You have ambition, then; you mean to become distinguished?" asked