The face was rather thin and rather square; the complexion pale. The eyes were very dark and very steady--at the moment very quiet, though with a touch of defiance in them which was habitual; the forehead broad and thoughtful--the level eyebrows had a trick of contracting sharply, which took away from the calmness which might have seemed at first the dominant characteristic of the ample brow. The nose was rather long and sharp--the mouth firm, and a little cross: the lips looked as if they would more readily tighten in irritation at the stupidity of others, than part in wonder or amaze at their cleverness--and their expression did not belie the truth. The whole face was more clearly cut, more decided in feature, more distinct in expression than the faces of many--nay, of most of his class in the same place. Perhaps it answered to a clearer mental outline--was the distinct objective side of a well-defined subjectivity. Be that as it may, the figure was a manly and a good one--the face no less so. This young man, holding his pencil suspended over his note-book, looked reflectively around the room, standing erect, though the wall was just behind him to lean upon. Walls to lean upon, moral or material, are irresistible to some people. His eyes fell upon the different workers as they moved hither and thither, adjusting their work, or stepping from one loom to another. Those eyes presently fell upon a young woman who was standing at the far end of the room, and whose face happened to be turned towards him. Her glance met his: they nodded and smiled to one another, and his smile flashed across his dark face with an effect which the smiles of fair faces and light eyes can never have. This young man’s name was Myles Heywood, and the scene of his labours was the factory of Sebastian Mallory, the largest mill and property owner but one in the town of Thanshope, in Lancashire. He was, then, clever, honest, proud to excess, and self-opinionated, though few people could help liking him, even when his opinions and prejudices, with both of which articles he was well provided, might rub against theirs. One thing deserves recording of him, which alone would have shown him to be somewhat aloof from his fellow-workmen--he had no nickname; and in that district, where often a man’s real name was quite hidden under a cloud of bynames and nicknames, this was at least peculiar. Myles Heywood, after spending a few moments looking down the shed, through the mist of cotton fluff which made the air dim and the lungs irritable, turned and went into a neighbouring room, where they were twisting--a monotonous task--the rapid twisting together of the ends of cotton of two warps, paid for at the rate of threepence per thousand ends--a fact which had caused our critic in the linen jacket much thought at different times.