"What sort of a man?" repeated Leah. "A very nice man."
"Yes; but in looks, I mean."
"Well, he is very good-looking. Blue eyes, and dark hair, and straight features. Why do you want to know?"
"Ay, that's him. But I don't know about the colour of his eyes; I thought they was dark. Blue in one light and brown in another, maybe. A tallish, thinnish man."
"He's pretty tall; not what can be called a maypole. A little taller than Mr. Brightman was."
"Brightman and Strange, that's it? T'other's an old gent, I suppose?" was the next remark; while I sat, amused at the colloquy.
"He was not old. He is just dead. Have you any message?"
"No, I don't want to leave a message; that's not my business. He told me he lived here, and I came to make sure of it. A pleasant, sociable man, ain't he; no pride about him, though he is well off and goes cruising about in his own yacht."
"No pride at all with those he knows, whether it's friends or servants," returned Leah, forgetting her own pride, or at any rate her discretion, in singing my praises. "Never was anybody pleasanter than he. But as to a yacht——"
"Needn't say any more, ma'am; it's the same man. Takes a short pipe and a social dram occasionally, and makes no bones over it."