He was of no great height, slim and dark.
His hair was black, his complexion sallow, and on his upper lip he wore a small dark moustache.

His ears were small, his mouth thin, his chin sharply pointed, but his eyes, large, dark brown, were his best feature.
They were eyes that looked as though they held in their depths the possibility of tenderness.

He walked as an athlete, there was no spare flesh about him anywhere, and in his carriage there was a dignity that had in it pride of birth, complete self-possession, and above all, contempt for his fellow-creatures.
He despised all the world save only his father.

He had gone through his school-life and was now passing through his college-life as a man travels through a country that has for him no interest and no worth but that may lead, once it has been traversed, to something of importance and adventure.

He was now at the beginning of his second year at Cambridge and was regarded by every one with distrust, admiration, excitement.