The letter was written in a feminine hand, neat but unformed, and concluded with a bold masculine signature: "Horatio Augustus Featherson."
I clothed myself that afternoon in a blue serge suit—luckily my wardrobe was well stocked and in good condition—and looking in the glass to view the tout ensemble saw, not the professional-looking individual whom you have known as More d'Escombe, but a slight, dark young man, with a—I may as well say it—clean-cut, rather handsome face, a small waxed dark moustache, and a clear, almost olive, complexion.
I do not wish to eulogize my appearance as it then was, for after all, good looks are only worth what they will bring to the pocket, and depend upon the country and surroundings in which one lives; a man or woman passing as handsome in one continent may be looked upon as positively ugly in another. It all depends on the standard of beauty in the immediate market.
A smartly-dressed housemaid showed me to the presence of Mr. Featherson, who, immaculately dressed, was sitting reading in a cosily furnished smoking-room.
As I entered, he rose, and I saw that he
