The man on the left was perhaps forty, rather above middle height,
vigorous, active, straight, with blue eyes and a sanguine face that
glowed on small provocation. His hair was very bright, almost red, and
his fiery moustaches which descended to the level of his chin, like Don
Quixote's seemed bristling and charging.
The man on the right was nearer thirty, evidently tall, wiry, and very
thin. He sat rather crumpled, in his low armchair, with hands clasped
round a knee; and a little crucified smile haunted the lips of his lean
face, which, with its parchmenty, tanned, shaven cheeks, and deep-set,
very living eyes, had a certain beauty.
These two men, so extravagantly unlike, looked at each other like
neighbouring dogs, who, having long decided that they are better apart,
suddenly find that they have met at some spot where they cannot possibly
have a fight. And the woman watched; the owner, as it were, of one, but
who, from sheer love of dogs, had always stroked and patted the other.
"So, Mr. Courtier," said the younger man, whose dry, ironic voice, like
his smile, seemed defending the fervid spirit in his eyes; "all you say
only amounts, you see, to a defence of the so-called Liberal spirit;
and, forgive my candour, that spirit, being an importation from the
realms of philosophy and art, withers the moment it touches practical
affairs.
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