He had a good deal more to say
for himself than her military admirers, and was altogether more amusing.
He had a little cynical air which Lesbia's recent education had taught
her to enjoy. He depreciated all her female friends--abused their gowns
and bonnets, and gave her to understand, between the lines, as it were,
that she was the only woman in London worth thinking about.
She looked at him curiously, wondering how Belle Trinder had been able
to resign herself to the idea of marrying him.
He was not absolutely bad looking--but he was in all things unlike a
girl's ideal lover. He was short and stout, with a pale complexion, and
sunken faded eyes, as of a man who had spent the greater part of his
life by candle light, and had pored much over ledgers and bank books,
share lists and prospectuses. He dressed well, or allowed himself to be
dressed by the most correct of tailors--the Prince's tailor--but he
never attempted to lead the fashion in his garments. He had no
originality. Such sublime flights as that of the man who revived
corduroy, or of that daring genius who resuscitated the half-forgotten
Inverness coat, were unknown to him.
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