Now Myles knew it was the ‘so-called master’--it was Sebastian Mallory: a second glance at the fair though bronzed face, the yellow hair and moustache, the proudly cut features, and the indifferent expression, displayed sufficient likeness to his mother to make the first intuitive conviction a certainty. Furious with himself at having been caught staring openly and wonderingly, Myles forgot his voluntary promise to Adrienne, and, in order to prove that, whatever his open eyes might at first have seemed to intimate, yet that he was not really at all struck by anything he had seen, he turned his back to the door, and was apparently bending with the deepest attention over his work, when that door was opened; he heard a voice conclude some injunctions to the groom, and the answer which followed: ‘_Jawohl, mein Herr._’ ‘Foreign servants, even!’ murmured Myles, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Good morning, my good man,’ was the next thing he heard, in an accent as different from that of the Thanshope ‘gentleman’ as Adrienne’s was different from that of the Thanshope lady. He turned round and looked up; he was forced to do so now, and, without noticing the lad who stood in the background, he faced Mallory. The two young men confronted each other for the first time. So far as expression and complexion went, they were as great a contrast as could be imagined. Both were tall, spare, and well-built, and there the resemblance ended. Myles was, as has been said, quick, passionate, lithe, alert, with a temper that sprang into action on every possible occasion, with eyes that flashed, brows that contracted, very often in the course of the day. Sebastian Mallory was graceful, but there was some languor, real or assumed, in the grace. He was handsome, but the good looks were certainly marred by the bored expression on his pale, fine features. His eyes moved slowly; they were very good eyes, luminous, and hazel in colour, but they did not look as if they would easily flash. He spoke, looked, moved, as if he found life rather troublesome, and scarcely worth the trouble when it had been taken. He had taken off his cap when he entered the office--foreign fashion, and Myles saw that his face, all save the forehead, was somewhat bronzed; but it was with the bronze of a hot sun--not nature, naturally he was pale. His hair, too, seemed to have caught the sun at the ends, elsewhere it was just yellow hair. Every gesture and movement was full of the polished ease of high cultivation. Myles, looking straight at him, said to himself, ‘One of your languid, heavy swells, are we? I’m afraid we shall ruffle his fine feathers in this horrid democratic place.’