But Warden had lived well, denying himself nothing, and the flesh which had been added had formed in flabby bunches, drooping his shoulders, sagging his jaws, swelling the back of his neck.
And yet Warden was not old; he had told some new-made friends in Willets that he was thirty-five.

But he looked older, for a certain blase sophistication that shone from his eyes and sat on the curves of his lips, did much to create the impression of past maturity.
Warden dressed well.

He was coatless, but he wore a shirt of some soft, striped material, with a loose, comfortable-looking collar and a neat bow tie.

His hair was short, with bristles in the roll of fat at the back of his neck; while at his forehead it was punctiliously parted, and plastered down with precision.
Warden was not alone.

At another window, her elbows on the sill, her hands crossed, her chin resting on the knuckles of the upper one, sat a woman.
She was young, slender, lissom.