The man was a foreigner, so much was evident at a glance; but that in itself was not sufficient to interest him so particularly.
The man was an arresting type. He was white-haired, very small and delicately made, with long graceful hands which he used a great deal in his conversation, making gestures, swaying his long, pale fingers gracefully, easily.
Under the sleek white hair which waved straight back from a high forehead his face was grey, vivacious, and peculiarly wicked.
George could think of no other word to describe the thin-lipped mouth that became one-sided and O-shaped in speech, the long thin nose, and more particularly the deep-set, round, black eyes which glistened and twinkled under enormous shaggy grey brows.
George touched Meggie’s arm.
‘Who is that?’ he said.
The girl looked up and then dropped her eyes hurriedly.
‘I don’t know,’ she murmured, ‘save that his name is Gideon or something, and he is a guest of the Colonel’s – nothing to do with our crowd.’
‘Weird-looking man,’ said Abbershaw.
‘Terrible!’ she said, so softly and with such earnestness that he glanced at her sharply and found her face quite grave.