His
hair had begun to thin and to turn grey, but he had a heavy moustache,
which would better have sorted with sterner lineaments. As he walked--or
sidled--into the room, his hands kept shutting and opening, with rather
ludicrous effect. Something which was not exactly shabbiness, but a lack of
lustre, of finish, singled him among the group of men; looking closer, one
saw that his black suit belonged to a fashion some years old. His linen was
irreproachable, but he wore no sort of jewellery, one little black stud
showing on his front, and, at the cuffs, solitaires of the same simple
description.
He drifted into a corner, and there would have sat alone, seemingly at
peace, had not Mrs. Weare presently moved to a seat beside him.
'I hope you won't be staying in town through August, Mr. Tymperley?'
'No!--Oh no!--Oh no, I think not!'
'But you seem uncertain. Do forgive me if I say that I'm sure you need a
change. Really, you know, you are _not_ looking quite the thing. Now, can't
I persuade you to join us at Lucerne? My husband would be so
pleased--delighted to talk with you about the state of Europe. Give us a
fortnight--do!'
'My dear Mrs. Weare, you are kindness itself! I am deeply grateful.
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