Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. “They died within a few months of one another. Finally, at the exit into Regent’s Park, they ran against Miss Klegg. He held in his hands many threads. He came as an agreeable diversion from an insoluble perplexity. ” “Rather! But I wonder why you don’t mean it?” “Because, I suppose, the other thing is better.
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