The light of the candle showed him a countenance once handsome, but now deeply lined, the complexion dark and sallow, deepening to almost a copper tint in the shadows. The nose aquiline and strongly marked; the upper lip singularly long, the mouth about as indicative of softness or flexibility as if it had been fashioned out of wrought iron; the cheeks worn and hollow; the brow and temples almost hidden by the long loose gray hair, which gave that lion-like aspect to the large head—altogether a face and head to be remembered. The figure tall and spare, but with breadth of shoulder; at times bent, but in some moments of vivacity drawn suddenly erect, as if the man by mere force of will could at pleasure recover the lost energy of his departed youth. ‘A curious face,’ thought Lucius; ‘and there is something in it—something that seems like a memory or an association—which strikes me more forcibly than the face itself. Yet I know not what. I daresay I have dreamed of such a face, or have shaped it in my own fancy to fit some poetic creation—Ugolino, Lear, who knows?’ ‘Sit down,’ said Mr. Sivewright, pointing to a chair opposite his own, into which he had established himself with as comfortable an air as if the chair itself had been the crowning triumph of luxurious upholstery. ‘You can drink claret, I suppose?’ taking a couple of glasses from the Florentine cabinet, and filling them with the wine on the table. ‘I drink no other wine myself. A sound light Medoc, which can hurt nobody.’ ‘Nobody whose stomach is fortified with a double casing of iron,’ thought Lucius, as he sipped the acrid beverage, which he accepted out of courtesy. ‘Ten minutes past six,’ said Mr. Sivewright, ringing a bell; ‘my dinner ought to be on the table.’ An inner door behind Lucius opened as he spoke, and a girl came into the room carrying a little tray, with two small covered dishes. Lucius supposed the newcomer to be a servant, and did not trouble himself to look up till she had placed her dishes on the table, and lingered to give the finishing touches to the arrangement of the board. He did look up then, and saw that this ministering spirit was no common hireling, but one of the most interesting women he had ever seen. She was hardly to be called a woman; she was but in the opening blossom of girlhood; a fragile-looking flower, pale as some waxen-petalled exotic reared under glass, with the thermometer at seventy-six. She had something foreign, or even tropical, in her appearance; eyes dark as night, hair of the same sombre hue. Her figure was of middle height, slim, but with no sharpness of outline; every curve perfection, every line grace. Her features were delicately pencilled, but not strikingly beautiful. Indeed, the chief and all-pervading charm of her appearance was that exquisite delicacy, that flower-like fragility which moved one to exclaim, ‘How lovely, but how short-lived!’