He was not more than twenty-five, of medium height, dark brown hair, soft and wavy as the silk of Indian corn, large brown eyes, a clear complexion, an aquiline nose, and a rather heavy, dark moustache, which in part hid a well-formed mouth.
Before him lay numerous packages of papers, but they were not claiming his attention. He was perusing a billet-doux written in a lady’s hand.
There was a refinement and gentleness in his face, while his dress and surroundings indicated a serious elegance, rich but unaffected.
“Who can she be?” was the exclamation that escaped him as he again read the letter which he held in his hand.
Tossing it down, he walked back and forth across the room with measured strides.
Stopping before the mantel, he lighted a cigar. “Louise Bonifield,” he ejaculated, between puffs of smoke, which he blew away in rings toward the ceiling, “where have I met her?
Where have I seen that name?”