It is large, of ultra-marine blue, steady, fearless, humorous, tender--everything heroic and beautiful and romantic you can imagine about eyes.

Let him clap a hand over that eye and you will hold him the most dreadful ogre that ever escaped out of a fairy tale.

Let him clap a hand over the other eye and look full at you out of the good one and you will think him the Knightliest man that ever was--and in my poor opinion, you would not be far wrong.
So, out of this nightmare of a face, the one beautiful eye of Sergeant Marigold was bent on me, as he delivered his message.
I thrust back my chair from the writing-table.
"Is Sir Anthony ill ?" "He rode by the gate an hour ago looking as well as either you or me, sir." "That's not very reassuring," said I.
Marigold did not take up the argument.

"They've sent the car for you, sir." "In that case," said I, "I'll start immediately." Marigold wheeled my chair out of the room and down the passage to the hall, where he fitted me with greatcoat and hat.

Then, having trundled me to the front gate, he picked me up--luckily I have always been a small spare man--and deposited me in the car.