She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. His features were regular, and finely-formed; his complexion bright and blooming,—a little shaded, however, by travel and exposure to the sun; and, with a praiseworthy contempt for the universal and preposterous fashion then prevailing, of substituting a peruke for the natural covering of the head, he allowed his own dark-brown hair to fall over his shoulders in ringlets as luxuriant as those that distinguished the court gallant in Charles the Second's days—a fashion, which we do not despair of seeing revived in our own days. ‘Why?’ Melusine eyed him dubiously. It’s a tremendous blow, of course—but it doesn’t kill me. Lucy collapsed to the floor in a sob. “Great dears!” said Capes, as the vehicle passed out of sight.
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