He was a tall, well-built man, with light close-cropped hair and a large intelligent face. His eyes were light blue in colour, not very direct in expression, and were beginning to be surrounded by the fine wrinkles that middle age and a life of pleasure imprint. The nose was aquiline, the mouth clean cut and rather full.
In age one would have put Mr. Charliewood down as four and forty, in status a man accustomed to move in good society, though probably more frequently the society of the club than that of the drawing-room.
When he was nearly at the mouth of New Bond Street, Mr. Charliewood stopped at a small and expensive-looking hairdresser's and perfumer's, passed through its revolving glass doors and bowed to a stately young lady with wonderfully-arranged coils of shining hair, who sat behind a little glass counter covered with cut-glass bottles of scent and ivory manicure sets.
"Good-morning, Miss Carling," he said easily and in a pleasant voice. "Is Proctor disengaged?"
"Yes, Mr. Charliewood," the girl answered, "he's quite ready for you if you'll go up-stairs."
"Quite well, my dear?" Mr. Charliewood said, with his hand upon the door which led inwards to the toilette saloons.
"Perfectly, thank you, Mr. Charliewood. But you're looking a little seedy this morning."
He made a gesture with his glove which he had just taken off.
"Ah well," he said, "very late last night, Miss Carling. It's the price one has to pay, you know! But Proctor will soon put me right."
"Hope so, I'm sure," she answered, wagging a slim finger at him. "Oh, you men about town!"