His clean-shaven face, brown in its proper complexion as well as with healthy sunburning (he had played very vigorous lawn-tennis for the last two months), looked like a boy's, except for the very determined mouth and the short, straight nose.

He was a little below middle height--well-knit and active; and though, properly speaking, he was not exactly handsome, he was quite exceptionally delightful to look at.
Jack Kirkby, sitting in an arm-chair a yard away, and in the same sort of costume--except that he wore both his shoes and a Third Trinity blazer--was a complete contrast in appearance.

The other had something of a Southern Europe look; Jack was obviously English--wholesome red cheeks, fair hair and a small mustache resembling spun silk.

He was, also, closely on six feet in height.
He was anxious just now, and, therefore, looked rather cross, fingering the very minute hairs of his mustache whenever he could spare the time from smoking, and looking determinedly away from Frank upon the floor.
For the last week he had talked over this affair, ever since the amazing announcement; and had come to the conclusion that once more, in this preposterous scheme, Frank really meant what he said.
Frank had a terrible way of meaning what he said--he reflected with dismay.

There was the affair of the bread and butter three years ago, before either of them had learned manners.