"Well then, though it is hard to have to describe a character that throws one's own into shade."
"No, my dear boy," said Mr. Ware, his eyes glistening at this modest avowal; "true praise of another's worth only enhances your own."
"Not in every one's opinion, I fear, uncle; virtue seems to stand so much by comparison, at least, I have often found it so; but that shall not prevent my giving as faithful a picture as I can remember of Hargrave. I am rather fond of studying character."
"How you wander," said Lucy; "do begin—."
"No, miss Lucy, I was not wandering so much as you think, my observation on character might after a bit have led to Hargrave—but, like a true knight, once more I obey. What shall I begin with? A man's agreeable qualities are generally judged by his acres; allow me," said he, waving his hand towards the window, and pointing to the landscape of hill and vale, and rich woods, and winding river, over which the moon was shining, to shew you his most agreeable phase in the eyes of fair ladies.
Lucy visibly colored, and Clair looked at her scrutinisingly, till she laughingly told him to go on.
"Well, if that description does not satisfy, I must be more minute, and bring up qualities, which, in these refined days, are not so much thought of, unfortunately. First, then, his personal appearance. He is very tall, and broad shouldered, and athletic; yet, at the same time, though he is as strong as a giant, you might almost call him graceful. He seems to have acquired the difficult art of standing perfectly still; no shifting from one foot to another, a habit, Miss Lucy, I am prone to indulge in. Now then for his face, dark eyes, dark hair, dark complexion, white teeth, and a good nose, and I suppose my description is complete."
"No, not yet, by any means," said Lucy, "tell us a little more."
"Ah, I forgot his sneer, which is perfect, I never saw one so cutting before; but then his smile atones for it, though as rare as the sunshine in November. The sneer is that of a proud, contemptuous, arrogant man—the smile, that of an infant. Then, his eye—there is no describing his eye—you, may remember it, uncle; it seems as if continual fire were sleeping in it, like the fire of uncurbed intellect; an eye capable of reading the countenance of another, yet, almost slothful in the attempt to do so."