She glared at him with her hands on her hips, her mouth set irritably aslant upward, her eyebrows gathered into a dark knot over her nose.

It would be hard to imagine a more forbidding countenance; and for supplementary effect out popped hunchback Jean to stand behind her, with his big head lying back in the hollow of his shoulders and his long chin elevated, while he gawped intently up into Beverley's face.
"Bon jour, Madame," said the Lieutenant, lifting his hat and speaking with a pleasant accent.

"Would it be agreeable to Captain Roussillon for me to see him a moment ?" Despite Beverley's cleverness in using the French language, he had a decided brusqueness of manner and a curt turn of voice not in the least Gallic.

True, the soft Virginian intonation marked every word, and his obeisance was as low as if Madame Roussillon had been a queen; but the light French grace was wholly lacking.
"What do you want of my husband ?" Madame Roussillon demanded.
"Nothing unpleasant, I assure you, Madame," said Beverley.
"Well, he's not at home, Mo'sieu; he's up the river for a few days." She relaxed her stare, untied her eyebrows, and even let fall her hands from her shelf-like hips.
"Thank you, Madame," said Beverley, bowing again, "I am sorry not to have seen him." As he was turning to go a shimmer of brown hair streaked with gold struck upon his vision from just within the door.

He paused, as if in response to a military command, while a pair of gray eyes met his with a flash.