She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. It was her foster brother Mike, on his way to the bathroom. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. "Don't alarm yourself. He wasn't quite hard enough to win worldly success; that was his fault.
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