There was something remarkably "taking," as we say, about thisman--something easy and genial and quizzical and careless. He was thekind of person you LIKE to meet on the street; whose cheerful passingsends you on feeling indefinably a little gayer than you did. He wastall, thin--even gaunt, maybe--and his face was long, rather pale, andshrewd and gentle; something in its oddity not unremindful of the lateSol Smith Russell. His hat was tilted back a little, the slightest bitto one side, and the sparse, brownish hair above his high forehead wasgoing to be gray before long. He looked about forty.

The truth is, I had expected to see a cousin german to Don Quixote; Ihad thought to detect signs and gleams of wildness, howeverslight--something a little "off." 0ne glance of that kindly and humorouseye told me such expectation had been nonsense. 0dd he might havebeen--Gadzooks! he looked it--but "queer"? Never. The fact that MissApperthwaite could picture such a man as this "sitting and sitting andsitting" himself into any form of mania or madness whatever spoke loudlyof her own imagination, indeed! The key to "Simpledoria" was to besought under some other mat.