“It becomes him.”

“Possibly. Pray proceed. His eyes?”

“Gray.”

“Nose?”

“Aquiline.”

“Beard?—men parting their hair in the centre wear beards.”

“Henri Quatre.”

“Hands?”

“Small and white.”

I threw a hasty glance at mine; they were of the same hue as the leg of the mahogany breakfast-table at which we were seated. Sun and saddle had done their work effectually.