They grew thick and long; and, with a perversion of vanity almost inconceivable in a sane person, Pierre had twisted these hairs together, as a man twists a mustache, and had trained them to grow obliquely across his cheek bone.

He was a big fellow, for a Frenchman, and, as he walked towards Cleggett with a mincing elasticity of gait, he smirked and caressed this whimsical adornment.

Cleggett, fascinated, stared at it as the fellow paused before him.

Pierre, evidently gratified at the sensation he was creating, continued to smirk and twist, and then, seeing that he held his audience, he took from his waistcoat pocket a little piece of cosmetic and, as a final touch of Gallic grotesquerie, waxed the thing.

It was all done with that air of quiet histrionicism, and with that sense of self-appreciation, which only the French can achieve in its perfection.
"You ordered, M'sieur ?" Pierre, having produced his effect, like the artist (though debased) that he was, did not linger over it.
"Er--a Scotch highball," said Cleggett, recovering himself.