The others gaped and stared--some at young Westmacott, some at the man he had so grossly affronted--whilst in the shadows of the hall a couple of lacqueys looked on amazed, all teeth and eyes.
Mr.Wilding stood, very still and outwardly impassive, the wine trickling from his long face, which, if pale, was no paler than its habit, a vestige of the smile with which he had proposed the toast still lingering on his thin lips, though departed from his eyes.

An elegant gentleman was Mr.Wilding, tall, and seeming even taller by virtue of his exceeding slenderness.

He had the courage to wear his own hair, which was of a dark brown and very luxuriant; dark brown too were his sombre eyes, low-lidded and set at a downward slant.

From those odd eyes of his, his countenance gathered an air of superciliousness tempered by a gentle melancholy.

For the rest, it was scored by lines that stamped it with the appearance of an age in excess of his thirty years.
Thirty guineas' worth of Mechlin at his throat was drenched, empurpled and ruined beyond redemption, and on the breast of his blue satin coat a dark patch was spreading like a stain of blood.
Richard Westmacott, short, sturdy, and fair-complexioned to the point of insipidity, watched him sullenly out of pale eyes, and waited.