Sir Robert was seated at his ebony desk playing with a pencil, and the
light from a cheerful fire fell upon his face.
In its own way it was a remarkable face, as he appeared then in his
fourth and fortieth year; very pale but with a natural pallor, very well
cut and on the whole impressive. His eyes were dark, matching his black
hair and pointed beard, and his nose was straight and rather prominent.
Perhaps the mouth was his weakest feature, for there was a certain
shiftiness about it, also the lips were thick and slightly sensuous.
Sir Robert knew this, and therefore he grew a moustache to veil them
somewhat. To a careful observer the general impression given by this
face was such as is left by the sudden sight of a waxen mask. "How
strong! How lifelike!" he would have said, "but of course it isn't
real. There may be a man behind, or there may be wood, but that's only
a mask." Many people of perception had felt like this about Sir Robert
Aylward, namely, that under the mask of his pale countenance dwelt a
different being whom they did not know or appreciate.
If these had seen him at this moment of the opening of our story, they
might have held that Wisdom was justified of her children.
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