And Trevor entered the gate, and approached them.
CHAPTER XI.
UNDER THE CHESTNUTS.
Vane Trevor was rather good-looking; a young gentleman of the slender and delicate type; his dark hair curled, and on his small forehead one of those tresses, twisted, barber-fashion, into a neat little Ionic volute, and his glossy whiskers were curled on each cheek into little rolls like pistol barrels. There was in his toilet something of elaboration and precision which was uncomfortable, and made one fear to shake hands with him, and wish him safely back again in his band-box.
He approached simpering. There was a general air of May Fair—cameo studs, varnished boots, and lavender gloves—that had nothing of the rough and careless country in it.
“How do, Miss Darkwell—charming day, is not it? Everything really so fresh; you can’t imagine—as I came along, and a—this, now really this little—a—place, it looks quite charming—quite, really, now—a—as you turn off the road, there’s everything you know to make it charming.”
This latter period was delivered in a low tone, and with a gracious significance.