"That is Lord Heyton, the Marquess's son," said Celia.
"Friend of yours?" Reggie inquired.
"No!" escaped Celia's lips.
Reggie turned his eyes to her quickly.
"Glad of that!" he said. "Because, if there's anything in the science of physiognomy, that gentleman is a decidedly bad lot."
Celia turned away from the gate and walked slowly beside Reggie.
"You jump at conclusions," she said. "You have only seen him for a moment or two, and at a distance."
"I've got very good eyes," said Reggie; "and a moment or two's long enough; it's the first impression that's valuable; and, as I say, if there's any truth in the theory that you can read a character by facial characteristics, that gentleman is about as bad as they make 'em."
"But—forgive me—that you should be able to judge so swiftly sounds absurd."
"Well, it may be," admitted Reggie, grudgingly. "But I'll bet my last dollar that I'm right. Why, don't you see," he went on, earnestly, insistently, "the man's got all the wrong points; the low, shelving brow, the weak chin, the—the wrong lips. Did you notice the trick he has of looking sideways under his lids? You know what I mean, the furtive 'does-anyone-know' look?"